Aphelion
by Dresden Blue
Summary: Hermione becomes friends with the quiet young man who shares her corner of the library. It changes things - right up to Avengers, Ragnarok and beyond. Starts pre-Thor during HP&PS and moves into AU versions of movie! and comic!Marvelverse. Revised.
1. Prologue

**Aphelion**

**Prologue**

**June 11th, 2011**

It started, like most things, with a bang.

This one sent Hermione skidding across the concrete, coming to a gasping stop mere inches away from the edge of a drop that would have had her splattered across Third Avenue. She felt something snap; through the explosion of pain she distantly diagnosed it as a broken collarbone. Still, she staggered to her feet, raising up her wand just in time to parry Harry's next attack. Her shield shook under the effort to sustain it: she wasn't a soldier, she was a _scholar, _she didn't belong here, she had sworn off war long ago, but...

...but, but there was Harry bringing up his wand once more, hurling not just his trademark _Expelliarmus _at her but also other spells of binding and control, everything from _Petrifucus totalus _to _Imperius. _She didn't know what was worst, that she was fighting her childhood friend or that he still thought they were friends enough that she was worth 'saving'.

Oh, spells and stones may break her bones, but the _words that came out of his mouth..._

"Can't you see, Hermione?" Harry asked, his voice with only the faintest hint of a pant to it. He stalked towards her, wand upraised. Above them the Chitauri stormed down from the heavens, the rift between their worlds black as a rotten wound against the blue of the New York summer sky. _Here's to necessary evils. _"I know you mean well, you always do, but—Hermione, please, _please_ stop, I know it's hard to hear but you've picked the wrong side this time, we can't stop Ragnorak, nothing can, this isn't your fault... You're hurt, you need healing, you're hopelessly outmatched, surely even you can see that-"

_Listen to yourself! _she wanted to scream, but knew it wouldn't do an ounce of good. He wouldn't understand. He never did. This was hardly any different. So instead she gritted her teeth against the pain and clenched at the Elder Wand in her hand. Oh, she hadn't wanted that little trinket, anymore than she wanted any of this, but she'd be damned if she'd let Harry win this—damned to hells darker and deeper than he could ever imagine.

Not that she needed to imagine them anymore. She snapped out an _Expelliarmus _of her own between ragged breaths. "When have I—when have _you_ ever cared about being outmatched when it's the right thing to do!"

Harry dodged, of course, an Auror in the full flower of his abilities. It was that sort of day. "Loki has lied to you, I understand that you're angry-"

"That's not the point!" she spat out, bracing herself for Harry's next blow—an eyewateringly strong freezing hex that had her diving to the ground again. She couldn't bite back the scream as the broken bone fragmented further within her chest with her hard landing.

When she looked up next, the world spinning around her, Harry looked pained. "But you _do_ care about doing the right thing. Hermione, please, don't do this—we just want to help you—I'll keep you be safe, no one will be angry at you, I promise-"

He was advancing towards her, his palms upraised as if he was trying to calm a wild animal. She tasted blood in her mouth and she spat it out as she forced herself to her feet again, swaying with the effort of staying upright. Her heart ached. Harry's still-scruffy hair, utterly untamed even though he was a father in his mid thirties, ruffled in the wind. He was wearing jeans and a tshirt; if not for the splatter of blood on his glasses and the alien invasion whirling around their heads it could have been a friendly sparring match. She tasted smoke and fire in the air and remembered all the times they had once stood side by side against those that would seek to destroy their world.

Gods, she was tempted. Every part of her wanted to sink down to the ground again and give it all up. Harry cared for her, and there were others as well, she hadn't pushed away all her friends yet-

—but his eyes, wide and eager and so very sure of his ability to _save _her from herself, they were not the sparkling emerald green she had long loved in her friend.

_No_.

They were a shade of too-bright blue, the color of the Tesseract that was tearing their world apart.

Hermione closed her eyes, trying to will herself to cast Fiendfyre, _Avada kedavra_, anything that could simply end this so she could get on with saving the world, but she found that she couldn't. Her throat was dry and the tears were spilling over in her eyes. Her hand refused to bring up her wand, her legs rocked dangerously beneath her.

She couldn't. Couldn't hurt him. Couldn't do a damn thing, not when Loki was standing on the other side of the skyscraper watching the exchange with his chin held high and a dagger-thin smile on his face, cutting her heart asunder.

Her breath caught. It was the happiest she had ever seen him, the full power of the last twelve years of plotting coming to a cruel cusp. Their eyes met and when she blinked he was in front of her, next to Harry as if _he _that had been the one standing at Loki's side all these years, as if it was—was-

Loki stepped in towards her. She scrabbled for the knife she kept at her waist but her hands were shaking too hard; the blade fell with a clatter to the ground. He stepped forward, pressing his hand against her broken bone and she mewled in pain, the world going bright white for a moment. "Hermione," he murmured, "Hermione, love, how very far you've fallen. It hurts to see you so."

Her eyes darted around. They were close to the edge; she could toss herself down. It'd be better than what he planned for her, anything would be than that _hell_. She still had quite a bit further to fall, and it was only an issue of whether it'd be with him or under her own power.

His long fingers came up to cradle her jaw, middle finger delicately tracing her earlobe. She shuddered. His eyes were hypnotizing, just as they always had been; she couldn't bring herself to look away even though she could feel the beginnings of a spell curl around her mind like a noose. "You've lost, my little lioness. The world is changing and it leaves you behind. Is this what you dreamed of as a little girl?" His smile sweetened and his fingers tightened, threatening to choke her. "Oh, do you not _remember..._"

Her face twisted; dizzy, she couldn't help but lean into his hand as she struggled for balance. How had it come to this? And, for a moment, she wished she could change it all.

**A/N**:

Updated 3/6/13

A few notes, before we begin in earnest. :-)

As of 7/25/2012 I have a complete rough draft of Aphelion, so no worries about it not ever getting finished. ;-) I just... take a lot of time to edit things. Huge props to my infinitely patient beta reader, MakalaMea!

Every 100th reviewer will get a short story of their choice from me (within reason). It could be "missing moments" from this fic, sequels or prequels, or something from completely different fandoms. Your pick! I'm hoping to encourage reviewers as much as I am hoping to expand my own writing horizons with this. No, really. I was told to write fluff and I wrote fluff for the first time in my life. Check my profile for a current listing of fics I have finished/am working on; ones that take place either parallel to or between chapters of **Aphelion** will additionally be noted in the author's notes in the relevant chapters.

I do my best to respond to every review I get, particularly ones that include constructive criticism. I go back and edit/revise chapters pretty regularly based on feedback from y'all, so it doesn't just float away into the ether. ;-) It's helped me grow as an author tremendously, and has also made this particular story much better over time. For a complete changelog of edits that I have made, check out the **Aphelion** tag on my tumblr, **DresdenBlue**.

With that – off we go!


	2. The First Year

**APHELION**

**PART ONE OF THREE**

**The First Year**

**Fall 1991**

He was sitting in her favorite chair. This, Hermione quickly decided, was unacceptable.

It was a very particular chair, one she had discovered on her second day at Hogwarts. No one else in her year had seemed very interested in the library so she had set off alone, traversing long lonely aisles covered in dust and keeping each sparkling new discovery entirely for herself. The books proved better company to her anyway – at least they were concerned about things more interesting than Quidditch and gossip. It was in one particularly faraway corner, nestled in an alcove rimmed with entrancingly complex runes, that she found her perch: that chair, almost throne-like in its proportions and yet delightfully squashy due to the generous use of what she tentatively identified as Cushioning Charms.

Her immediate attraction to the chair had confused her until, overwhelmed with curiosity, she checked out _Runic Inscriptions for Better Furniture and a Better Life. _While that book in particular couldn't identify all the runes in the alcove (and she hadn't quite finished going through the rest of that section yet) she could identify ones for rest, peace, calm, but even more wonderfully, runes for learning, for memory, for wisdom, for cleverness and creativity—indeed, for all of the traits she treasured most. Someone had put a lot of care into crafting that chair, surely some like-minded soul from a long ago generation, she told herself, who had thought to make themselves a cozy little hideaway to get away from the world. Given the age of the runes, perhaps it had even been one of the founders, there since the very construction of the castle. Had Rowena Ravenclaw sat in this very chair, the learning of the whole wide world arrayed around her, more precious than any kingdom? The thought made her giddily excited for when she found the time to go through the _For Further Reading_ section in Hogwarts: A History.

Whoever it was, Hermione could think of no better way of honoring the intent behind the alcove than to curl up within that cozy chair herself and lose herself in the written word. It comforted her a bit to think that she hadn't been the only one to find solace in books, and settling into that chair for a long night of reading even let her believe it was what she wanted most.

But then here was someone, in the one place in Hogwarts she had really begun to think of as her own, sitting there quite contentedly with a book of his own in his hands, like a cat on a high perch with the sun on its back and cream on its whiskers and completely uncaring of anything else in the world. She didn't recognize the young man, though she had been so thoroughly discouraged in her attempts to socialize with the student body she couldn't say she was surprised to meet someone new. Still, he was distinctive: dark hair, dark robes, dark lashes over pale eyes, all the shade and sheen of the feathers of the raven that delivered Professor Snape's post. The way he lounged in the chair brought out the long lean lines of his body, and Hermione blushed a bit. It was never the nice looking ones in the library. They were always out flirting with older girls or polishing their broomsticks or some such. Not... _reading_.

He glanced up from his reading as she stared, but clearly unconcerned, just as soon looked back down.

With some trepidation, she cleared her throat and stepped a bit closer. "Excuse me," she said, fighting to keep her voice from trembling with nerves, "but that's my seat." Then she flushed and looked down at her hands. "Um."

He looked back up and suddenly she felt very silly and wanted nothing more than to run a very long ways away, favorite chair or no—but she couldn't, she was pinned to the floor, a mere bug under the magnifying glass of his clear eyes. The sense she got from him was one she had been quickly beginning to associate with Slytherins—that hint of honed _coldness_, an aloofness superimposed over raw wounds like the crispest bandage money could buy. All of the Slytherins, behind their petty cruelties, seemed prematurely thrust into an adulthood before they properly understood what their lauded ambition was even supposed to mean. That was the theory, anyway, that she had developed out of some books she had read on the Houses of Hogwarts, and it translated well enough into her practical everyday experience: her classmates proved her hypothesis sound every time they tripped her in the hallway or tangled her hair with just-learned jinxes in order to establish superiority, gain social status, etc. Knowing what was going on in their heads didn't make the sting any easier, but maybe at some point knowing something could actually be useful. She hoped so. "Really," he said, his voice cool.

"I-I mean, seating isn't assigned or anything," she said, stammering a bit. "This is just where I usually sit and I thought—I mean, I guess I sort of assumed—" Her shoulders slumped as she wilted under that calm, level gaze. She came here to get _away_ from judgmental people, to rest up a bit, not to have just another confrontation; this wasn't something she felt like she could deal with right now."I didn't know anyone else knew about this place," she ended with a whisper. She felt her eyes grow hot with embarrassment.

"Nor did I," he replied. She knew he was looking at her, _judging_ her, but she couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. "I daresay that is the appeal of this place for both of us."

With that she peeked up a bit in hope, her bushy hair partially shielding herself from his gaze, but she didn't quite feel brave enough to push it out of the way lest he see that she was red eyed and close to tears. His expression seemed to have softened somewhat, from that crisp, clean neutrality to something with the barest hint of warmth, like a candle flickering at the end of a corridor, but for some reason that made him seem even older, as if that candle had already almost burned itself down to the barest stub. Probably a Seventh Year, she reasoned. NEWT stress and all. She'd start studying around this time of year too. He waved a hand and another chair materialized across from his, considerably less grand but still eminently comfortable looking. _Definitely_ a Seventh Year, he had done it out of thin air! "Come. Sit. It would be less than generous were I to not share such a lovely place of rest with someone in obvious need."

At least he didn't bite. Some of the more upper level prefects, the more studious ones she felt like she could at least on some level relate to, had a tendency to lash out when she wanted to borrow a book or ask a question about their classes. She decided to take the offer as it stood and walked hesitantly over to the newly transfigured chair, setting her book bag carefully beside her and inspecting the seat. Oh, he had done such a lovely job, it felt like just like real leather beneath her hand. He must get very good marks. She felt the young man's eyes follow her, and she furiously fought down the flush in her cheeks. "I suppose I ought to thank you, then."

She chanced a glance upwards to see his response. He had a ghost of a smile on his lips, small but seemingly genuine. "I know how easy it is to be possessive of such places," he said, "as much as I know how easy it is to get irritated at intruders. Besides: sharing the space seems easier than wasting time arguing about it. We'd both rather be reading, no?" With that, his gaze went blithely back down into his book.

A smile broke out on her face. She reached for her own bag, drawing out her coursework for the evening and quite firmly setting quill to parchment. Lovely!

She grew used to his presence over the next few weeks; he probably had a term project or some such, she reasoned, though she didn't dare ask lest that penetrating gaze impale her truly this time. Notably, she found that his appetite for reading exceeded even hers: despite his lack of a prefect badge, sometimes he would linger past the library closing hours that had her scuttling for the door—but when she visited before breakfast in the morning, sometimes she found him sitting there then as well, pouring over ancient manuscripts as if he had never stopped.

She was curious about him, of course, but found that she enjoyed his silent company far more than she had previously enjoyed the library silence alone. Given how poorly her social life was going outside of this tightly bound bit of camaraderie, she didn't want to risk losing him by pushing the parameters too far. It was.. enough, just to sit next to him; it felt like the only thing in her life at Hogwarts thus far that she could truly be content with, the only subject she didn't absolutely _have_ to ask questions about because no questions were actually necessary.

One time she came in, and, upon opening her Potions textbook, found that Malfoy had slipped in a little something for her: a modified Howler that belted out her physical attributes with an eye towards humiliation, from buck teeth to bushy hair and likely all the synonyms for _ugly_ he could find in the thesaurus. Mortified, she cast spell after spell at the note, attempting to Silence or Disappate it or _anything, _but nothing seemed to be able to quiet its methodical destruction of what little self esteem she had left.

It took conscious awareness of the tears rolling down her face before she really recognized that she was upset: all that was running through her head were the ways in which one could possibly make such a thing go away before Madam Pince heard. The last thing she needed right now was to be kicked out of the library, to lose her one safe space and to be thrust back out under the gaze of her carelessly cruel classmates. She supposed, in some distanced part of her mind, that she was in shock, though the dissociation didn't seem to be doing her spellwork any good. She had been spending a lot of her spare time learning counter curses, as her Slytherin classmates in particular seemed to enjoy tormenting her with creative hexes, but they must have beaten her out in the arms race on this one. Dazed, it occurred to her that she'd have to read some more books on that, too, she could get back to Amazing Arithmancers of the Eighteenth Century later...

She felt a cool hand her shoulders, and the note burst into a tiny puff of green fire. Shocked, she let her wand arm fall, but now the sobs broke out, her body quaking like a tree in a storm as she stood there, bookbag having fallen forgotten to the ground. The hand at her shoulder led her back into her chair through her haze of tears. She felt so ashamed she was dizzy with it, wanting nothing more than to collapse and cry it all out in some corner far away from everything. None of the things Malfoy or any of her other classmates were supposed to _matter_, she was supposed to be above it all, but she couldn't help but care and somehow that made it worse. Her hands clenched, nails biting into her palms in helpless grief, her wand made slippery with heat and sweat.

The cool hand stayed there on her shoulder for the seeming eternity it took for her to stop uncontrollably sobbing and lapse into hiccuping sniffles. Eventually she worked up the courage to look through eyelashes still soaked with tears to see her savior: the black-haired young man, of course, who must have been sitting there in the alcove all along while she was panicking over the note. The thought of him listening to Malfoy's awful note horrified her anew, but he wasn't looking at her, despite the cessation in crying. Rather his eyes seemed to focus a long ways off, as if he could bore right through five sets of shelves straight into the section on Alchemy (_Ancient Times_ and _Early Antiquity _subsections.) There was a frown on his brow, and a very sad look that managed to draw her out of her shell. "I'm sorry," she blurted out, raising her hand to wipe away her tears for some semblance at dignity.

"For crying all over my shirt?" He looked down at her and smiled, but it was a very sad smile. "It would be a silly pursuit indeed if magic couldn't get a bit of salt out of silk."

"No," she said, and dared herself to say the next bit; it wasn't as if she had any more self respect to lose around him anyway, and this seemed like a good time to test the Muggle psychology books she had read to try to make sense of people. Practical application, so to speak. "Sorry for you. You're very sad. Like how other people who get bullied get sad when they see someone else get bullied. Like how Neville looks when I get bullied. That's you." She stopped. "Isn't it?"

He looked startled at this, but didn't move away. His thumb was making little circles on her shoulder; she found the gesture strangely comforting, for such a small motion. Not at all like the big, yet brief bear-like hugs her parents would give her, a squeeze and then release. This was... constant, calming, even though the point of contact seemed insignificantly tiny. "I was bullied, once upon a time." He laughed and though she didn't pretend to understand she could hear the bitterness that shot through like veins on a hand, pulsing just underneath the surface like a living thing. "I am still bullied about, really. Some people never really grow up, irregardless of the circumstances of their upbringing." He turned and looked at her, _into_ her, reminding her of one of Professor Snape's magic-laced gazes that seemed to see far more than the dull brown of her eyes. "This will be hard to hear, but I am afraid you'll have to get used to this sort of thing. It won't end, ever. Whomever sent you that note—those sorts, they will always be afraid of people like us."

"People like us?" she whispered.

He looked sharply at her, but then his gaze softened, something very strange passing through his eyes. "Like us," he repeated, and drew her into the warmest hug she had ever known and held her there for a very long time. She wondered if this was the sort of thing a big brother might do. Hogwarts was supposed to be a family, right? Her body was stiff at first against his, but she found herself relaxing, leaning into his chest and borrowing her nose into the soft wool of his robes, her aching eyes closing as the last of the wetness in her eyes slipped out.

Eventually they drew apart and wordlessly went back to reading. She looked up at him, sometimes—and, sometimes, he'd even look back. Considering what Malfoy had done, she felt quite happy right now, more so than she had since she had gotten her Hogwarts letter. She had a friend. Wasn't that grand?

When she was done with her coursework she got up, reluctant to leave. "Goodbye," she said softly, turning to go.

She could feel his eyes following her as she left, and perhaps she was imagining it, but she thought she heard a quiet, "Farewell" trail behind her.

The next morning she strained her neck looking for him at House Tables, a gesture of familiarity she hadn't felt comfortable presuming before—but could not find him. Ron teased her for how silly she looked, half out of her seat, and she fell into a nervous despair. All morning her anxiety rose like a swelling tide, that this sudden friend had just as suddenly abandoned her, and at lunch when she didn't see him there either she felt panic welling in the back of her throat, threatening to choke her. Nor was he in the library, where she had always been able to find him before. Was his research done? Was he hiding? Had she just hallucinated it all in a fit of nerves, was it some newly subtle trick played on her by her Slytherin tormentors?

She overcompensated in Charms, trying to draw in confidence around her like a cloak, spitting out the correct answers as if she was sucking the venom out of a snakebite. She tried _so ha__rd_ to be good, tried to show people how to do things right, tried to correct them so they wouldn't get so much wrong, tried to be helpful, tried everything she knew to make them stop **staring** at her like she was something out of a freakshow... but everything she did just seemed to make it worse.

It didn't take her much to send her over the edge, some careless comment by a thoughtless classmate in the hall on the way to dinner. She felt the tears bubbling hot and fast in her eyes and she broke into a run, desperate to hide herself away. She knew he wasn't in the library somehow, knew it in the pit of her stomach as if a lead weight had been dropped there to drown her. The bathroom was closer anyway, she reasoned through the haze of tears threatening to fall. Everyone would be at dinner anyway. She'd have a good cry and then settle back into the rhythm of being alone. She just needed a safe space.


	3. The Second Year

**The Second Year**

**May 8th, 1993**

For the remainder of that first year, Hermione had left that chair open out of a vain hope that he would come back—and, truth be told, sitting in the one he had conjured for her gave her some small amount of comfort. It was _something_ he had done for her that yet remained, even while her memories, of that warm stranger who would deign hold her even while she dissolved into a blubbering mess, proved as slippery as pearls on a broken chain, falling through her fingers and shattering into increasingly impressionistic and disjointed pieces. As that year stretched on with all its sudden complications and externalities, she was left with the cool of his hand and the warmth of his chest, the tickle on her nose at the fine wool of his robes, the smoothness of his silk shirt against her cheek, the sudden translucence in his pale eyes as he looked down at her face and seemed to see her, _into_ her, like no one else had ever really bothered to do before.

And still didn't. She was fond of Harry and Ron, she really was, they'd smile and laugh with her sometimes, but...

Well.

Nothing was perfect, after all.

Later, by her second year, leaving that chair open became simple habit, as did the occasional grip that sadness would come upon her heart and _squeeze_ in unkind greeting._ S_he'd curl up, opposite his chair, and fiercely focus eyes blurring with tears on her texts until she had successfully forced such thoughts from her mind, bitterness threading its way through in the wake left behind.

She found other ways to fill her time than books, of course, namely in keeping Harry and Ron from getting themselves killed. They were friends, ones that at least found her useful and when they laughed at her they usually meant it well, but she still found herself yearning for that quiet companionship she had so briefly experienced. It was an ache, one whose origins she couldn't completely fathom nor even grasp except for those little flashes of memories that she'd replay endlessly in her head. She didn't understand... didn't understand who he was, why he had been there, why he had held her, why he had gone away, none of it! Worst, she didn't know whether she would ever be able to figure it out – a jigsaw missing too many pieces to even get a complete picture of what had gone on.

She wondered if that was what love was like, that faraway thing that adults seem to moon about, when you could be so perfectly happy being perfectly helpless while giddy rationales squeezed the heart into tautological loops. Or, perhaps it was mere infatuation, a disease to plague her otherwise tidy mind with a crush of unwanted thoughts. She would wonder, curled up in the chair he had conjured for her, if he would return—just opposite her, like he had never left, eyes crinkling and smiling at her over the edges of her book. She would wonder if he would like her better now, that if he had met her this year as opposed to the previous, he might have stayed by her because she wasn't so _petty _anymore, didn't cry when bullied but would rather bite back with a vicious hex of her own, could even be brave from time to time like the Hat had seemed to think she was capable of. She would wonder whether she was remembering him correctly at all and if was really as kind and caring as he had seemed; she would wonder if someone who would leave her behind without even telling her goodbye was worth her consideration. She wondered whether any of this mattered at all; she wondered why she cared.

She had almost managed to set it all aside and place thoughts of the friend-that-never-was firmly in the realm of recreational daydreaming when, one day while storming in to redouble her efforts in researching the Heir, she found _him _sitting in that chair again, so casually it was as if he had never left at all. She stood there before the alcove for several shocked moments, mind paralyzed as if she too had been petrified, before she blurted out the first of many realizations she had come to regarding his most mysterious self: "_You_ aren't a student."

He looked up from his book and smiled at her, one that was thin and wane and—amused? Part of her bristled at the thought that he would be so unconcerned with being a stranger in such suspicious times, but part of her just wanted to smile back helplessly and fall back into being that spineless eleven year old who had sat by him for a few gloriously halcyon weeks. But she was _thirteen_ now, thank you very much, and wouldn't partake in any of that nonsense. "No," he said, then looked back down at his book, utterly uncaring. "I'm not."

Hermione blinked; not the expected reaction. She fiddled with her wand, unsure of what to do. Call Madame Pince? Make a dash for the Headmaster? But he wasn't giving the slightest indication that there should be any reason that he ought _not_ be sitting there! She couldn't decide whether that was a very convincing act on the part of a sociopath or simple innocence. Still standing facing the alcove, she bit her lip and summed up some of that courage she had begun to pool in her heart over the past year. "Well... why are you here, then, if you're not a student?"

She couldn't quite place the subtleties of those little smiles of his, fleeting expressions that flitted across his face like swallows ducking in and out of the wind – though it might have helped if he had actually bothered to look up when she had asked the question. "That much," he said, continuing with his uncaring air, "should be abundantly obvious." He gestured with his book as if it explained away absolutely everything that could have possibly troubled her and went right back into reading it.

"But why _here_?" she demanded. A tendril of anger curled around her throat, hot and suffocating. "Where are you from? What are you doing? Who are you, anyway?" Her hand gripped her wand more tightly and she mentally recited spells of alarm and defense, ready to cast the moment he did anything more threatening than... well, smiling at her. She doubted somewhat he'd do anything so offensive as to hurt the books, but she'd be damned if she would let herself get lulled by a false sense of camaraderie again and allow someone who could very well be the mysterious Heir of Slytherin slip through her fingers and hurt more of her friends! Certainly with his dark hair and pale skin he could pass as one of Salazar's own, now that she was thinking of it...

The young man sighed, carefully marking his page and _finally_ closing his reading to pay attention to her. "I come to Hogwarts," he said, for all his tone possessing the patience of a long suffering saint, "because where I come from, my people don't exactly treasure scholars like you or I. They'd much rather be greedily drinking themselves silly and then gallivanting around trying to find giants to do glorious battle at." He waved his hand at the shelves around them. "Besides—I am unfamiliar with your magics, and seek to learn. Is that not reason enough? Surely you of all the students in this castle would understand."

She narrowed her eyes. "Those aren't answers."

"Perhaps not," he said, pale eyes glinting with obvious amusement. Her wand twitched, and she wondered whether she could freeze that entirely obnoxious look of condescension onto his face with a good _petrificus totalus. _She had the notion that she would like him a lot better that way."But if you would not believe those truths, then how likely are you to believe others?"

"Try me," she said, frowning and crossing her arms. "Hogwarts is a strange place and I've spent enough time reading up on it in this library to understand it better than most anyone else around here. No one else bothers to _read_. What do you have to say that is so_ fantastic_ that you don't think I could possibly believe it?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "Very well then. Do you know _Verificite_?" At her blank look he touched a hand to his forehead in mild exasperation. "I've seen it mentioned in a few of your texts. After casting, whatever you point that wand of yours for the next while will glow to your eyes only when they knowingly speak falsehoods. Very old and very simple, though I understand it fell out of favor after an Inquisition of some sort and was conveniently left out of textbooks for a few centuries." He smiled obligingly. "All things run rancid with time. But this is the most convenient spell of your kind that I can think of."

"How do I know the spell won't just slice off my head?" Hermione demanded primly, though intrigued despite—no, because of—herself. "Or if it has loopholes, or even whether it's a real spell at all and you won't just make things glow on your own to trick me?"

The young man waved his hands, clearly vexed. "Etymology. Is your life so short that they don't think it worth it to teach you anything of value at this institution? Besides— intent matters in magic more than the words you say, especially when it comes to anything that could do yourself harm. At most, perhaps sparks will fly from that wand of yours and burn a few tender hairs from your much suffering head." He stopped his lecturing and frowned at her. "Regardless: if you wish to hear from me, be quick before I grow more bored. This is the most I've wasted on your kind in quite some time. Consider yourself honored."

Hermione huffed a bit—at this point she'd almost gladly believe him to be a Slytherin student, with an attitude like that—but then remembered that one of her points had been left unaddressed. "And how do I know you won't be tricking me by making things glow anyway? Or counteracting the glow somehow?"

He spread his hands out wide. "No wand." He smiled crookedly. "I promise."

"I've seen you do wandless magic before," she pointed out.

"Can you not simply _feel _when magic is being used?" he asked her, but waved away any response she might have before she even opened her mouth. "Of course not. They teach nothing of true value here, other than scraps slipped in with cracked bones."

"At least they teach modesty," she snapped, and raised up her hands. "I'll try your spell, but if anything, _anything at all, _feels off, I'm going straight to the Headmaster. Is that clear?" She was upset enough that her tone managed something of the imperial quality that she had seen McGonagall wield so well in class; while it seemed to shut him up, he still retained that sliver of a smile, sneaking in like a needle.

Good enough. She pointed her wand well away from herself , trying not to look quite so ginger with it. "_Verificite_!" she cried, and gave him a pointed look. _Well?_

The man spread out his hands. "I confess: I am the Heir that troubles you." Immediately, a red aura seemed to settle in about him, giving his face a sickly color before fading away just as quickly as it had come. "Or rather: I am no Heir to anything of your Earthly ilk." This time, no glow. "Satisfied?"

She nodded: preliminary results were so far promising, though she couldn't trust that she wasn't somehow being tricked. She'd look up the unknown spell later. For now... well, at least while he was answering her questions, the suspect wouldn't be causing any problems: "How do you know about the Heir, anyway?"

"A snake told me."

No red. "What snake?"

"The one that slithers about in your very midst."

Hermione scowled. Less helpful. "I take it metaphors are not included as conscious falsehoods in the terms of this spell?"

He smiled. "Another reason _Verificite_ is no longer commonly used, no doubt. But come now, ask better questions. Be clever about it."

She gritted her teeth and lunged for one of many sources of irritation, now that her immediate fears of the Heir had been tentatively assuaged."Why did you leave me?"

"Because I had better things to do, and elsewhere." He dimpled. "Oh dear, were you expecting me to _stay_?"

"I was an eleven year old who thought she had made a friend!" she cried out. Part of her wanted to stomp right on forward and smack that smug look right off his face, not even bothering with a spell. Or maybe put his head on a stake at the entrance to the library to warn off other dark handsome strangers from breaking the hearts of resident bookworms. "Do you always go around tormenting lost lonely girls left all alone in libraries?"

"I have to say," he said smoothly, inspecting her as one might a mutt in a menagerie, "that you're the first. And likely the last. I didn't expect you to be such a bother."

"I'm honored," she said scathingly, throwing his words back at him.

"I can bless you too." His smile was mockingly sweet. "Perhaps even offer you a boon, if you promise to say please and thank you."

None of that exchange had seemed red; idly, Hermione wondered how the spell dealt with apparently subjective measures like whether she should consider herself grateful that he had bothered to come down from on high at all. How _did_ the spell deal with different interpretations of words? Boons implied high birth, and blessings the backing of a religious institution, just as two recent examples in this mess of a conversation. No wonder _Verificite _had gone out of use: it would be inconsistent to use when one took any linguistic considerations into account at all, which rather defeated the point of the spell.

She caught herself. That little quiet smile of his that just seemed to scream that she was missing something very, very important and that he knew every inch of it. She decided to bring the interrogation back into more constructive territory—carefully, and within the limits of the spell. It was obvious he was trying to distract her; it seemed a game to him. "Do you know who the Heir is?" she demanded.

"No."

"Are you helping the Heir in any way?"

"No."

"Where are you from?"

"Somewhere a very long ways away from here."

"How far?"

"Worlds away."

She stamped her foot down. "What is the place that you are from called?"

"Many things."

"What would _I_ know it as?"

"Asgard."

She blinked. No red, not during any of that. "What is your name?"

"Loki."

"Are you serious?" she asked, knowing her Norse mythology just as she knew her Egyptian and Assyrian and... well, everything else. "No, don't answer that one. What is your father's name?"

"Odin."

She blinked again; the inertial quality to curiosity pressed her irresistibly forward."Who is your brother?"

Here he scowled, his whole face souring like curdled milk. "An oaf."

"What is your brother's _name_?"

"Thor."

She bit her lip. Oh sweet Merlin. "Are you human?"

"Mercifully, no."

The Chamber of Secrets and the Heir and the blood on the walls and the panic of the teachers and even the terror of her fellow students and friends were all quite forgotten as her brain shifted tracks into another puzzle entirely. Mentally, she methodically went through each and every single book she had read in the library, every lecture she had attended, anything and everything she had ever digested trying to find any sort of reference to _gods waltzing into Hogwarts to have a nice read whenever they bore themselves on their own plane of existence, _but she was coming up with a blank. She simply had no idea what was going on and the thought terrified her almost as much as that little sliver of a smile of his.

But, perhaps such a—minor?—detail _had_ been forgotten, even here in this place where all the knowledge of the wizarding world was supposed to be categorized and kept. She had, after all, spent the better part of this year coming to the excruciatingly well researched notion that wizards were terrible at remembering and recording their own history. Blueprints to Hogwarts didn't even exist! How could a whole Chamber, with a great grandiose capitalized C for goodness sakes, be kept a secret in one of the most trafficked Wizarding institutions on this sad, soggy little island?

Easily, as it turned out. Human heads could be so far up in the clouds that they wouldn't notice that the heavens had come down to earth to walk amongst them and laugh at the weather.

She felt a faint shiver of intertwined fear and curiosity crawl through her veins, rattling her nerves as it carried on. "Has my _verificite _spell worn out?"

"Yes," he said with an accompanying flash of red and that _smile_ of his.

A thought crossed her mind. "Are you evil?" she whispered.

He laughed, then leaned forward. His pale eyes danced a half dozen colors, greens and blues and grays. "Don't be stupid, girl. No one who does evil thinks themselves as such. It is always, _always_ for the better good." No red; _verificite_ must be bloody awful at identifying the truthiness of philosophy. 'Loki' then leaned back in his chair, tapping his book. "I wouldn't pay much attention to the stories. My brother has an unfortunate tendency to—ah, expound upon his perspective of things over a few too many rounds of mead, and humans are known no more for their tolerance than their attention to the truth." His smile thinned, dagger-sharp. "And, of course, humans always feel the need to _explain_ everything that doesn't make sense, fill in the blanks for themselves. And, since every story, _naturally_, needs a villain... why not the one who doesn't laugh at every bad joke at Father's precious feasts?"

There was something very raw there, beneath all of those hard lines on his face. She could feel it burning in the space between them, exposed fevered nerves in an open wound that couldn't seem heal. "I'm sorry," she blurted out. "That sounds terrible."

He smiled wryly, that strange little smile that faded before it could reach his eyes. For a creature that always seemed to be smiling there was remarkably little happiness to him. "The price for preferring subtlety in a race of berserkers."

"Is that why you come here?" she asked. She could feel herself letting down her guard, now, how clever of him, she recognized with a jolt. She made sure to keep gripping her wand even while she stepped forward a bit towards him. "To get away from them?"

"Yes and no," he said, and then he laughed again. It was a strange sound, one that seemed both happy and bitter at the same time, but she couldn't tell whether it was all one muddled emotion or simply different threads of the same cloth. "Certainly my intent is not to talk to little mortal children about what weighs down the heart of a god, and yet like most intentions I find it goes astray." He inclined his head. "As does yours. You are fickle, my dear: you vary from jealous rage to righteous paranoia to a crooning picture of compassion in mere minutes. Tell me, my dear, are you always so inconstant, or is it only when you receive your presumed friends?"

At this, something snapped within Hermione: whatever connection that had so briefly stretched itself out between them curled away and she crackled with Gryffindor fire. "No," she said with all the steadiness she could muster. "No, this isn't about _me_. Someone's going around petrifying students. And a cat. Leaving bloody marks on the walls. Killing roosters. Whispering to Harry-" Her cheeks flushed, not meaning to give that last bit up since it hadn't been her secret to tell, and she looked down briefly to collect herself before meeting his eyes once more. "Perhaps not as grand as the temper tantrums of gods; I'm sure _your_ fits result in genocide and world domination, but it's drama enough for me. Everyone else here is running about in a fit of fear and I feel like I'm the only one who's actually trying to sit down and _think_!" She glared in what she hoped was a fierce way at him, trying to impress upon him just how infuriated by this whole situation she felt. "You're free to feel sorry for yourself, but I'm trying to _do_ something here and I won't have you telling me I'm just being a silly little girl again. I've had quite enough of that." After she stopped she crossed her arms again and did her best to meet his eyes and not back down, not even a bit.

"I see," he said quietly after holding her gaze for many long moments, considering her. Was that approval in his eyes? She couldn't tell. She couldn't even tell whether she should be making a mad dash for Madame Pince yet or not because the Heir had tricked her good, and having had his fun was about to end the game by gutting her on the spot. But... there didn't seem to be anger in his eyes, only a sort of cold calculation, but that's what the Muggle psychology books had said about serial killers. Cold as a snake. _Slytherin, _except... maybe not.

She bit her lip but continued to hold his gaze, somehow matching that silent intensity with a strength of her own. While she didn't think beating the Heir in a staring contest would somehow make him spare her life, it was at least a start.

"I would gladly help you," he continued after a moment, his manner somehow still as cool and calm as if she had never questioned him at all. "It's a petty matter to me, even if it's—ah, what was your phrasing?—_grand _enough for the likes of mere mortals." His smile was all charm and careless cheer, as if she hadn't thought him the Heir of Slytherin but a few minutes ago. "Perhaps I could suggest you take a long look at yourself. _Reflect _a bit." He made a sort of elaborate flourish with his hands—wandless magic, again!—and a handmirror framed by two twining snakes appeared in his hands. He held it towards her. "Such considerations may save that delightfully indignant life of yours if you take the proper care."

Hermione blinked, summoning the handmirror with a flick of her wand and a quick _Accio_. It lay heavy in her hands; all she saw in its surface was a foolish little girl who didn't know what was going on in the slightest. "I don't understand—"

"_Think_ about it," he said, his voice taking on an edge of irritation. "If you're so much more clever than these other mortals then _prove_ it. You spend this one life you've been given sitting in the library and all you have to show for it so far is some marks on a page that get sent to mummy and daddy at the end of the term." He sat up from his chair, shutting his book. "And I would suggest that you _do_ think very deeply about it before you run off to inform the Headmaster that some bogeyman is running around frightening helpless little girls in the library, mm?"

She barely registered his last words, or even that he had left at all. Her mind was already whirling as the pieces suddenly clicked cleanly, perfectly, terrifyingly into place. "Pipes," she whispered, reaching for a scrap of paper.

**A/N**:

Getting Hermione's immediate reaction to meeting him again after a whole year of growing up and more importantly, growing a spine, and furthermore under extraordinarily stressful and suspicious circumstances, was difficult for me. Let alone Loki's reactions... black boxes are surprisingly difficult to describe. If any of you have any constructive criticism, I'd absolutely love to hear it! I'm more than willing to go back and poke a bit. :) I've already done so a few times (most recently 10/22) based on reader comments.

One thing of particular concern: I tried not to spell everything out in excruciating detail (ex., whenever Hermione phrased a question such that Loki didn't have to answer the intent of it in complete honesty) but if you feel like too much went over your heads I can try to make things more obvious. I was going for a few AH HAH! moments where the reader would become aware of issues that the narrator isn't, but I'm not sure if it worked or not. Do tell!


	4. The Third Year

**The Third Year**

**January 23rd, 1994**

"You aren't being careful," Loki said as she approached, not even looking up from his book; his nonchalance was a slight she had gotten over long ago. "You're also just a few sections over looking through the bestiaries."

"Other than my past and future selves, you're the only person who comes this deep into the library," Hermione replied cheerfully, dropping her bag and collapsing into her accustomed chair with a happy sigh. "Besides, thanks to Hagrid, everyone's afraid that all books on magical creatures bite—or worse—so I really doubt anyone will be poking around there anyway." She smiled wanly; an outside observer might notice that their smiles were curiously similar, thin, catlike crescents that contained far more than just contentedness in their curve. "No need to be careful when no one else bothers to care."

Loki finally looked up; both their grins broadened. "Your ill kept secret is safe with me," he said, setting down his book, "and hopefully only me." His eyes swirled with colors, sea greens and stormcloud blues that swirled like fog saturated with subtle rainbows; his eyes were quite literally mesmerizing—a shapeshifter's eyes that only settled into a single color when his guard was up and his face set into a cold pale facade. She had learned to took their iridescence as a sign of trust: though still so reserved, so self conscious, so deliberately _sculpted_ in his every action, Loki still slipped up a bit around her and seemed almost like someone with a soul. "Etiquette escapes me," he continued, now tapping his book with long fingers, his smile shifting into something of an apology. "How are you feeling? Time travel still agreeing with that fragile mortal form of yours?"

"I feel fantastic!" she exclaimed, laughing and settling deeper into her chair. It was the comfiest seat in the castle, as far as she was concerned; idly, she wondered if he had cast some of his esoteric Asgardian magic on it to coax her into their alcove more often. It was the sort of good-natured sneakiness she had come to expect from her companion. She made a mental note to try some of her new diagnostic spells on it later. She loved catching him at his tricks. "Time travel takes trusting in oneself a bit farther than I think most people intend the phrase, but it's quite refreshing. All the research I please, and the time enough to chat with bored immortals besides." She beamed. "This is wonderful."

"I have to say, the tachyon particles make you positively _glow _in my eyes."

She couldn't stop smiling around him, didn't want to, not while he impossibly, inescapably, inexplicably smiled _back_. "And in your eyes only, I hope."

"Only a god could recognize a halo'd angel among mere men," he quipped, and the smile faded somewhat. "But in all sincerity, no ill effects? Queasiness, nausea, dizziness, a sudden urge to escape this petty plane of existence? I'd be devastated if the only mortal I can abide in this little piece of spacetime was killed by her own delusions of grandeur and godhood."

"Careful, Loki." Her face drew itself into a deadly seriousness, though she wasn't liar enough to extinguish the humor in her eyes. "Your fellow gods may just start to think you've gotten soft, caring for the well-being of a mortal and all."

His fingers were making little circular motions on his book, stroking it. She followed the movement with fascination. "To think," he mused, "of the great and terrible influence that adolescent human girls could wield over the universe were all gods fated to encounter one of their own."

"Then let the universe be grateful that the only god on Earth has encountered the only fourteen year old who couldn't care less." She was laughing. She did a lot of that these days. "Anyway. _In all sincerity_, Madame Pomfrey does quite enough fussing already. I'm aging faster than my peers, of course, but I can't say it's not an improvement. I never liked the age differential between myself and a certain older man anyway."

"A thousand years is a long time to catch up on, little one, and not everything ages near so well as yours truly." An eyebrow cocked. "Besides, corrupting impressionable human girls is hardly the worst thing I've been accused of."

Loki winked, and she flushed. Oh Merlin. He was a terrible flirt, but she had quickly discovered over the last few months that she was worse—when she didn't blush beet red from embarrassment first. "Imagine the fuss," she said, scrambling for a good return. "The Headmaster would be mortified, though more at whether a stranger had managed to sneak books under the nose of Madame Pince for years without anyone noticing or whether someone didn't think to entrust a secret to him I can't be certain." She lowered her voice. "_Speeches_ may be involved."

"And here I thought you loved a good lecture." Loki waved a dismissive hand. "He only has eyes for that angst-ridden friend of yours, no? I doubt he'll ever emerge from his office long enough to notice that a tall, dark, mysterious stranger has swept his star student off her feet with inconvenient intellectual practices like doubting authority figures and criticizing the status quo. Besides—" Here, his most charming smile. "Without my enigmatic presence, what would you do with your now-endless time? Your friends' homework in addition to your own? Such a dull creature you'd turn yourself into."

His grin broadened when she sent a canary careening at him with a flick of her wand. He lifted a hand and the bird changed course, instead happily alighting on his proffered fingers. "You are absolutely incorrigible!" she cried out, laughing. The canary warbled a few bars from what sounded like _F__ü__r Elise_ before disappearing in a puff of feathers; Loki had a habit of being a few centuries behind in Midgardian culture, though her proffered attempts to instruct him in the ways of jazz hadn't gone too well.

"Only because an enticing young mortal drives me to it," he said, his gaze suddenly turning intense. "Tell me, have your less intellectually endowed friends come to their senses about what fools they both are over that silly affair with the broomstick and you've _finally_ decided they're not worthy of your forgiveness... or do you suffer through my presence only because you have no alternative?" His smile sharpened. "Little different from when we first met, really."

Her joyous mood suddenly faltered, the connection between them wavering like a candle suddenly disturbed by a cold wind. Flirting with handsome, witty demigods who didn't seem to care a whit either way was oddly liberating, particularly to a fourteen-year-old girl only just becoming interested in... well, handsome witty demigods. She tried to think of their banter as practice, like a sparring match, something fun and instructive that neither of them really had to take seriously.

However, having said uncaring demigod subject you to a psychoanalysis as he prepared to pin you to a wall of vaguely-interesting-mortals-they-have-known-and-(probably never)-loved was quite another experience entirely. Hermione was well aware that she was just another novelty to the magician-god, but that didn't mean she liked it to be so... conspicuous. Even Hermione preferred to forget some things some of the time; some things just weren't worth knowing.

Not when they _hurt _you by being a little bit too true.

"I'd be here anyway," she said eventually, trying to restore the jovial mood of before. "Where else am I going to learn more of that Asgardian magic?"

"Ah," he said, his lips curving to a small smile; Hermione made a mental sigh of relief as their admittedly peculiar equilibrium began to restore itself. "You merely think of our time together as another of your electives. I knew it all along."

"Knew it, yet did nothing." Hermione summoned a snatch of courage. "One would think you didn't mind the role of teacher; is this some fantasy of yours, swooping down from on high to sweep a fair maiden off her feet with flashy magic and fantastic stories from far away?"

Loki leaned forward, his smile widening. "I might ask the same of you; how concerned you seem to be, for the gift of my good regards."

Her flush heightened. Speaking with him was like careening down some twisting mountain road in a car. Ever since she had woken up from her petrification, surrounded by friends and staff members—and Loki standing in a far corner with one fine finger to his smiling lips, shaking his head _no__—_he had been nothing if not kind. Oh, Merlin, he had been everything for her_, _he had even been_—_dare she say it?_—__supportive_! Especially since the incident with the Firebolt, providing her with companionship and camaraderie, private tutoring in the sort of scarily complicated arcane knowledge that she was pretty sure she couldn't even find in the Restricted Section.. and a much needed boost to her self esteem. Her best friend was a _god._ Not many fourteen year girls could really claim that, at least not any in recent history. She had checked. Exhaustively. Asgardians just hadn't seen anything on Earth to interest them in recent times, but Loki seemed interested in her_, her_, in watching her stumble and slowly grow and sometimes even helping her along and... smiling. As if she brought him genuine joy, as if she wasn't just a scholarly spectacle, as if she was...

…well.

_Human._

Still, speaking with him felt like the most dangerous thing she did on a regular basis, and that included playing at babysitter during Harry's own extracurricular activities. Loki was patronizing at best, self righteously degrading her youth, her gender, and her species at the worst. As much as he had cautioned her against the stories passed indirectly to Earth regarding his reputation as a trickster and a liar, there was something about him that she found she couldn't quite trust_—_a thin little thread that slipped its way through their interactions and colored them so subtly with suspicion that she wondered whether even the god of lies could spy it.

It had to do, in part, with his emotional inconsistency, those rare but spectacular mood swings that gave her whiplash in how quickly he could turn about and strike out at her for something he'd have laughed at moments ago. To be honest, though, moodiness was hardly any different from Harry or Ron, whose unpredictable tempers often left her stalking off to the library for comparatively calmer company. Hermione could put up with a lot. She had to, if she was going to have any friends.

But... then, there was the way his eyes settled just below her throat, where the Time Turner rested in its little gold and silver cage that only she could unlock. She told herself Loki was probably just intrigued by the side effects of mortal puberty and how quickly she was starting to fill in her clothes in the general vicinity of her chest—hardly _that_ comforting a thought considering how fine the line was between flirting as a sort of joke and the seriousness with which he occasionally took it. She had been raised on stories of gods abducting naïve mortal girls and then abandoning them pregnant and fated to further tragedy; if her interactions with Loki had taught her anything, it was that myths were usually anything but. Still, he didn't seem to show much of a sexual interest in her, barring the occasional innuendo, and she was well aware that she wasn't a whole lot to look at.

Yes, that rationale rang hollow to her, but it was better than the alternative. She could only be glad that the Ministry had been foresighted enough to specifically key the Time Turner to her touch, its one and only user, and that the defenses in which they kept the other devices—and the research underpinning their creation—would be enough to trouble even a god. Maybe not indefinitely, if they struck Loki's interest, but... apparently it had been enough, thus far? In her most suspicious moments, when she hadn't seen him for days at a time, or when she caught him with those singularly satisfied looks whose smugness had the scent of cruelty to them, or when those innocent inquiries into the Time Turner's mechanisms and effects seemed a bit too targeted, she wondered how it was that she would willingly spend time with such a creature.

Loathe as she was to admit it, she couldn't deny the helpless floundering of a crush, small and anxious and completely _irrational_. Her infatuation had bothered enough that after her first sensual daydream about Loki that she immediately plunged herself into research on love magic to see if he had bespelled her somehow. The diagnostic charms she had learned confirmed that she was still _capable_ of free willed rationality, even if she couldn't keep her heart from racing whenever she skipped off to the library to go see him. Her objective conclusion was that such things were a simple part of growing up: Loki was the first—and only—male who had taken an interest in her that seemed to have to do with _her_, and not just her ability to take good notes, everything from that first comforting hug to very possibly saving her life in the second year to the not-quite-idle flirting they now engaged in almost every day.

She'd admit that part of her longed for something—something vague and romantic and deep and warm that she couldn't quite put her finger on—but mostly, for all her suspicions, Loki was her _friend_. She felt a peculiar devotion to him, to those moments when his eyes would shimmer prismatically as he laughed and smiled and seemed even to trust her, times to her that were each as exquisite and singular as they were deeply mundane. It had been enough to keep her from gibbering about his presence to the Headmaster, despite what scarcely six months ago she might have called her better judgment. She had found herself a friend, and there was no power in this world that could force her into letting that go.

"Deciding whether I'm a good guy again?" he drawled from his seat, interrupting her thoughts.

She smiled at him. "No," she said eventually. "Just whether I care or not."

"Oh good," he said absently. Perhaps he was aware of her doubts, or perhaps he was just musing over his troubled home life in Asgard again. She couldn't tell, though she yearned to read him just as she could any of the books they delighted over together. "I must be rubbing off on you finally."

"Not quite," she said, pulling _Dark Wizards and How to Detect Them _from her bag_. _"I'm just resigned to my inability to change your mind either way." She waved the book in the air. "Are you in the mood for a lesson today, or should I settle in for a little light reading while I wait for my past selves to finish my coursework?"

Something glinted in his eyes, cold and steely and unfamiliar. She felt herself shiver, full of the sudden feeling that he could kill her at any time but genuinely didn't care either way, though still chose not to. Gods were frightening things, supposed friends or no. "How do you feel like learning how to kill a god?" he asked, as naturally as one might ask about the weather. "The subject has been of some fascination to me lately."

Her mind briefly flickered back to the few times he had spoken of his fellow Asgardians, mostly with malice barely disguised as amused disregard. He had always seemed to rot a bit when he talked of such things, like a half-felled tree that decayed with every rainfall. _Fascination_? That certainly seemed like the right word for how he might think about potential homicide.

She knew somewhere in her head that he was probably just bored and angry, and probably a good deal other emotions that she couldn't see, roiling beneath that charming face like worms in that rotting wood. She knew this might make her a potential partner, or enemy, depending on his mood. She knew somewhere in her head that learning such heresies would therefore tie her to him for the entirety of her no-longer-quite-so-petty mortal life. She knew she couldn't trust him, but she couldn't help but be intrigued; she knew he didn't care for her in the same way she cared for him, but couldn't help but feel indebted.

Besides: who was Hermione, to turn any sort of lesson down?

**A/N**:

...and now for something completely different? I'll admit that I was going for a strong contrast over the last two chapters, but I hope it wasn't too jarring. I wanted to show a half year of almost ideal development and the sort of happy familiarity it could breed. Was it alright that it wasn't explained straightaway how the last chapter had resolved, or did a bit of mystery keep you guessing in a good way? I can play with structure if people feel like this didn't quite work.

Revised as of 10/23/2012.


	5. The Fourth Year

**The Fourth Year**

**December 25th, 1994**

Hermione had never been beautiful before, never had all eyes turning towards her in alternating disbelief and awe. She didn't know whether to curl up in shame at being caught _caring_ for their good regard, or to explode in a smile for exceeding all expectations, updo and all. It was a strange cocktail of emotions that she was wholly unfamiliar with, and a stranger set of adjectives she heard being applied to her, _gorgeous_ and _pretty_ and _lovely_ and—she blushed with this one—_hot_. It was the first time since receiving her Hogwarts letter that she felt like she was in the fairytale she had expected of the magical world, a place where all dreams, no matter how silly or absurd, could come true. Viktor had quite literally swept her off her feet when he had asked her to dance; enjoying herself really did seem like the only rational response to having an irrational girlhood fantasy answered in full.

Still, there was only so much she could take in at once. Overwhelmed after a night of swirling about like a princess, she eventually pulled herself away to catch her breath. Viktor, ever sweetly obliging, excused himself to get the two of them drinks. _Hydration is important_, she had soberly reminded him at his retreating back.

She had only just tucked herself away into a nearby alcove to wait when she felt a familiar cool hand rest on her shoulder. She spun about and immediately broke into a broad grin. "Loki!"

He emerged from the shadows; his black robes, as usual, were nondescript enough to avoid serious suspicion, easily mistaken for either a Seventh Year or a Durmstrang student. Even so, it was in his nature to leave little to chance: his robes shimmered faintly with Asgardian magic, most of which she couldn't immediately identify but what she guessed to some spellcraft for inconspicuousness. "I was rather hoping to interrupt something," he drawled. "Have you grown bored of your latest lost boy already?"

"He's off getting drinks," she said absently, her smile fading and a frown creasing her brow. "But, Loki, this isn't the library, what if the Headmaster sees you, or—"

His smile smoothed into his typical poker-face, though she could see faint lines trouble his brow: worry. "It wouldn't be the only thing that Headmaster neglects to see," he said, "nor the last. There are plenty here who are not as they seem." Before Hermione could pick at another of his infuriating riddles—he had been hinting that she should be especially careful during the Triwizard Tournament and would barely even hint at why—his eyes raked over her body. "You look like a queen."

"I didn't know one could look regal in mauve."

"I didn't know a mortal could look so divine."

A grin tugged at her lips. "_I_ compare to ladies of the court of Asgard, who spend centuries perfecting the art of plucking their eyebrows? Now I know you're just flattering me. I thought I was beginning to be able to expect honesty from Loki Silvertongue."

He leaned in. She found her breath catching at his nearness—_still so out of breath from dancing_, she told herself. "Be careful what you wish for," he said, his voice just above a whisper. His eyes swept over her again and she found suppressing the urge to shrink back into a little ball, hunched over as if hiding in another of her books. Everyone was suddenly so _interested _in her body just because she had dressed up a bit and...

...well.

This was _Loki. _

She had dribbled tears all over him just over three years ago, and had since embarrassed herself countless more times whenever he tried to teach her something that was a bit beyond her—how did he put it?—'frail mortal form'. Yes, he was rather fiendishly handsome, and yes she _did _have an awful crush on him that had only dissipated a little bit when Viktor had entered the picture, but—

Oh. Right. _Viktor. _She glanced nervously in the direction of the drinks through the opening of the alcove. Viktor appeared to be ensnared by some of the jealous trollops who had seemed particularly peeved at his choice of date, his trademark awkward politeness rendering him incapable of removing the leeches.

Loki followed her look. "Be _very _careful what you wish for," he said, his voice queerly blithe. What had she wanted again?—she could scarcely recall, her eyes suddenly snared by the sight of Loki as he leaned back against one of the walls of the alcove, surveying the people passing them by. He must have cast a Notice Me Not charm or something on the entirety of their little corner; she found the thought of them remaining uninterrupted... good. Very good. Certainly better than finding herself surrounded by a whole harem when Viktor came back. "Don't tell me that your boy lost his spine again?"

"He's not _my _boy," Hermione corrected, blushing a bit but squaring her shoulders. "Just my boy_friend_. He's his very own independent person and if he feels the need to be _polite _then I'm certainly not going to stop him."

"There is no point in giving courtesy," Loki shot back, "if it cannot be expected to be returned." He looked questioningly over at the small flock of fangirls assembling in front of the punch, apparently taking advantage of the first and only moment Viktor had been without Hermione this night; Viktor was almost entirely subsumed. "I somehow doubt that the favors they press on him are ones you would like to see him return; that hardly strikes me as independent action."

Hermione's blush deepened. Loki loved to needle her about Viktor, but that was an unusually low blow, even for him. "I trust him," she said, her voice a little bit smaller than she would have liked, but strong all the same. "Just like he trusts me right now. We extend each other at least _that_ courtesy."

"Your world is full of discourteous people," Loki replied, just as quick. "Why bother at all?"

"Because maybe if we _do _bother," Hermione insisted stubbornly, "everyone eventually _will_." It was an old argument between them. "Viktor tries very hard to be nice, normal—and he really is, I know you find him _boring_ but he's... he's sweet, even if he can't always find the words to say to someone, he's reserved almost to a fault, but he always tries so hard to do right by others..." Babbling. She was babbling. She shut her mouth. She _did _like Viktor, even if she had a hard time explaining why in front of Loki. And maybe she didn't like Viktor quite as much as he seemed to like her, but she enjoyed the time she spent with him. Wasn't that all that mattered? "Point being, he's quite nice, and I like that he's nice."

"He must be remarkably tolerant, as well," Loki added, a sly smile spreading across his face. "I've found that few people forgive having snakes sent hissing at their heels."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh at the memory. "He found it charming!" She had been happy to discover that courtship didn't have to be as boring as dates in Hogsmeade and broom closet liaisons, particularly when she had a god of mischief pretending he wasn't trying to chaperone the two of them. "After Viktor managed to Banish them, anyway, and get antidote for the venom, and... well, apparently the bites have been a bit stubborn healing, but he won't hear of going to Madame Pomfrey _or _Karkaroff to get it patched up properly." She smiled, showing some teeth. "Anyway, he calls me _lioness__, _I'll have you know, and he tells me what a lovely roar I have to keep my friends at bay."

"By _your_ roar, does he mean _my_ traps that were meant to keep _his—_what is your word, fanatics, fans?_—_away so that I could actually use the library for its intended purpose?"

"You say that you wish to remain my little lie," she threw back at him, "and then you complain that I'm keeping your secret too well? Your tongue twists itself into a knot."

Loki eyed her again. "You learn, my lovely _lioness._" The way he rolled the word over his tongue made him seem as if he was exploring it, sounding it out and finding that he rather liked it; she found herself shivering in unexpected delight. Viktor said may use the word as an endearment, but Loki said it with... something else, something hot like embers and cool like silk all at the same time, something that made her toes curl tight right within the ridiculous shoes she was wearing to this ridiculous dance on this ridiculous night when... when, as she looked up into those incandescently iridescent eyes of his, anything felt possible. "Tell me," he asked, his voice sweet and smoky like sugared earl gray, "do the lies still feel little to you, or are you beginning to bend beneath their burden?"

She rolled her eyes. "How could I possibly feel shame in sneaking off to the _library_?" Hermione asked, and it was true: the thought was only slightly unsettling in her stomach. "Besides, they know that's where I spend all my time already. I just don't feel the need to tell them with whom I spent it."

"Shame, Hermione?"

"Guilt." She grinned at him. "I waste my time with you talking about _absolutely nothing _instead of –of trying to take over the world or something!" She waved her hands in the air and laughed. "What am I supposed to say to them? That I'm best friends with a Norse god but mostly we just sit around and read books all day? Why, no, he _doesn't_ get around to teaching me things nearly as often as I'd like, though I did learn ten ways to rend immortal souls from bodies and how to hold a really straight poker face."

"You consider our time together a waste?" Loki's smile was sly.

"Only sometimes." Her eyes sparkled; _never_, they said. "But enough of that. I have a birthday present for you!"

"My _birthday_?" Loki seemed genuinely surprised; she felt inordinately pleased with herself. It was hard to catch him off guard. "Now, how did you go and puzzle an arbitrary thing like that out? Asgard has a very different calendar than your own..."

"I cast it using some of the less, ah, problematic Divinatory spells," she said, excited to explain. "I couldn't get a very precise read, typical of Divination really, but I very consistently got _cold_ from the elementally oriented readings, which logically seemed matched to winter even though everything else was too scrambled up to understand. First bit of good I got out of Trelawney's class last year, and likely the last." She beamed. "So, I don't have birth _day_ for you so much as a birth _season, _but I'm willing to consider this a success if you are. Or, um, at least as an excuse. I've been carrying your gift around with me ever since the first frost waiting for a good time to give this to you, but Viktor's always been in and out and I've been busy and it just never seemed to happen... here we go..."

Loki watched, bemused, as she fished out a long thin chain from what she could now confidently call her _bosom_, now that she was 'developed' enough to require a bra. She concentrated for a moment—the sort of wandless, wordless Asgardian magic that Loki would sometimes condescend to tutor her in did not come easily—and then a crystal vial appeared at the end of the chain, lit from within by bright blue flames.

She beamed, quite pleased with herself. She had managed to conjure it out of its little pocket dimension on the first time and everything. "You always seem cold," she started to explain, slightly nervous but covering it over with a confident tone. "Your skin, that is. Cool to the touch." _Not that I get to touch you very often_, a traitorous bit whispered, but immediately pushed it down again. Oh Merlin now was _so _not the time for hormones. She recovered from her stumbling the best she could: "So I—I thought I'd give you a bit of warmth."

It sounded really silly now that she was saying it aloud, but there wasn't any stopping now. She dangled the vial in front of Loki, encouraging him to take it. "You can keep it under your robes, if you'd like. I cast a spell on it—I know, _human _magic—that would let it take up only two dimensions of our space when anything beyond normal atmospheric pressure is applied to its sides, even though it will still behave as if it was three dimensional. That way it won't, um, stick out or anything, that seemed like the sort of thing you might be picky about, or at least your court, you never make it sound as if you get along very well with anyone there... anyway, it's a strange bit of spellwork, I was trying to figure out how Extension charms work." She smiled apologetically. She knew he didn't mind it when she babbled, liked it even, but she still felt self conscious about it. "It won't ever burn you either by being too hot either. It's self regulating. Always the temperature you want."

Loki took the chain from her outstretched hand and fingered the little vial, the flames lighting him a blue as crisp and bright as the winter sky. His smile was small but true and she felt very pleased at herself. She knew it wasn't the most finely crafted thing he'd have ever received, being a god in an immortal race where a single talisman could take decades to craft, but it was _her_ warmth she was giving him and _she_ had been the one to think of it. Given how dismissively he spoke of his family and friends on Asgard, she didn't think there was much thought at all in the sorts of gifts he would receive there.

And she _did_ like it when he smiled properly, without any tension or guile complicating his expression. It made him look... young, or at least, as young as a thousand-year-old-god could look. As if he could be just another friend, as if he was human and somehow like her_. _It was nice forgetting he was a god, sometimes, and she had the feeling that he liked to forget it too.

Loki turned the vial about between his fingers. "I see strands of magic connected directly to you, " he murmured, studying the little fire. It danced under his eyes; his irises turned a shade of pale blue to match. For a self-declared shapeshifter, his appearance changed an awful lot unconsciously. "Was this intentional, or are you getting sloppy with your spellwork? We've spoken about how dangerous it is to put yourself too wholly into what you create..."

Indeed they had. After she had regretfully given up the Time Turner—having no legitimate excuse to use it in the eyes of the Ministry after dropping Divination and Muggle Studies—Loki had expressed severe disappointment in her, the memory of which still made her toes curl in embarrassment. It wasn't so much that they would no longer have the luxury of quite literally all the time in the world to devote to each other... though admittedly returning to a normal 24-hours-a-day, 7-days-a-week schedule had been pretty difficult. Primarily, his issue had been that she would willingly part with something that was so closely tied to her magical signature. _Never leave loose ends untied_, he had told her. _They'll come back as a noose to choke you if you ever become anything of value._

She tried to forgive herself, even if Loki wouldn't. After all, in the daze after the revelation of Sirius' innocence she hadn't been handling anything all that cleverly—maybe they could have even caught Pettigrew, if she had thought a bit more quickly and cautiously. But she _had _managed some good; sending Sirius off into the sunrise with Buckbeak had been surprisingly satisfying, as had been unraveling a little bit more of the melodrama around Harry's birth. She really did like doing good, as much as Loki might mock her for her failures. She just needed to get better at it.

She had much to learn, and was grateful that Loki was willing to teach her. Hermione wasn't quite sure what she wanted to do with her life yet, but with Loki at her side, she felt like she could do anything.

Her smile grew more nervous, and she took a deep breath. "The magical connection was done quite intentionally. See, you've been so worried about me lately, you tell me that things aren't _well_ here and I know you probably have some terribly clever reason or another not to tell me but... Well, just for example, you barely even complained about how much time Viktor has been spending with me, and I _know_ you don't like him. I think you go along with the two of us being a... a, a _thing_ because you think he'll keep me safer, because he can actually be around me all the time." She paused and scowled at Loki, who had something like a grimace on his face. "Don't give me that look, you know I'm right. Anyway. So I thought it would be useful if you had a way to—make sure I was OK, I guess. I got the idea from Ron's family, they have this clock that—right. _Anyway_. The fires in that vial—they're keyed by color to match my current well being. I didn't know what Asgardian connotations are with different colors, so I went with—well, your eyes. They shift depending on your mood, you know." She flushed furiously. "Um. So, blue for happy—and I'm quite happy now, you can tell, though those little threads of yellow—that's nervousness, anxiety, but not much, and the bits of green—that's concentration, focus." _I'm concentrating _very _hard on not sounding like an idiot, even if it doesn't show_. "Gray or white will be a neutral, calm mood. And so on. You only really need to worry when it starts getting some red in there – your eyes get a bit... ruddy when you're upset about something, and I assumed they'd turn a deeper red if you were ever _really_ mad... so that's intense fear or anger, particularly with regards to mortal danger." She swallowed, but forced the next bit out in the most a-matter-of-fact way she could manage. "And if I die, the flames will go out. So you don't need to worry about me anymore at all."

Loki took the vial in his hands, then put it around his neck and tucked it into his robes. "Thank you, Hermione." He said this very softly, but with a peculiarly formal quality: she wondered how seriously Asgardians took such gifts, though she had a fluttery feeling she wouldn't mind whatever connotations came with it. He then put a hand on his chest; definitely a ritualistic acceptance. "I will cherish this and keep it close to my thoughts."

He stepped back, leaning against the opposite wall of the alcove. Now that the adrenaline from dancing and gift-giving was beginning to ebb away, she was able to get a better look at him. She had been developing an eye for magic under his tutelage, a subtle ability to _see_ the currents and pools as it flowed all about them—at least, when she concentrated. Now that she had cultivated this ability over the last year, to her eyes he always seemed to glow faintly even when she wasn't directing her sight towards the particulars of his aura, the sheer raw power of a god wrapped around him in a hazy, exquisite veil. His robes, even, were saturated with runic figures, each painstakingly cast by hand, shifting and shimmering beneath her gaze like moonlight on the Black Lake. There were runes for charisma, cleverness, charm. Would she be half as obliging of him if stripped of his literal mantle of power? She wasn't sure.

And, taking in those features on his face—the lines of his cheekbones and brow so fine, they were as if carved, as if cut, as if ground, as if polished—pale eyes that swirled like one of Trelawney's crystal balls, just as full of doubting questions as vague answers—thin lips that could just as easily curve in an open smile as a tight little frown—and that lithe body that could uncoil itself like a cat ready to pounce on whatever prey caught its eye today—she still wondered if that niggling sliver of very human _attraction_ was caused by some magic of his as well. There were runes on him that she didn't recognize, spells cast with his gestures she could not place, so many things that she did not understand...

What a puzzle he was, and though she knew so many pieces were missing to her she couldn't help but try to put it all together and riddle it out... Harry, Ron, and now Viktor even, they took time but she could _learn_ them, guess at their reactions, comprehend their motivations. Loki, on the other hand, was always an undefined number of variables too complex. It was intolerably interesting.

"I have to say," Loki said dryly, interrupting her thoughts, "I find that you stare at me far more than that heavy-footed boy of yours. Ought he be jealous?"

"Only if _you_ keep staring at _me_ like _that._" Her lips curled in a faint smile. She may not understand him, but she did know that if she didn't tell him precisely what she was thinking about he'd weasel it out of her anyway. The truth was always the best balm for the god of lies. "Viktor, at least, doesn't use runes to accentuate how others perceive him. I know how I feel, and I know _how_ I know how I feel. I can... relax, somewhat, around him." She frowned at her own words. "That isn't quite what I mean. He feels _natural_ to me. And... natural is good, sometimes."

Loki, for his part, didn't look nearly as insulted as she was expecting; rather, he seemed amused. "Your hair, your teeth, both permanently changed with spellwork? I remember you being buck toothed girl with bushy hair, and now you have a lovely smile and a head of curls. What about the very nutritional supplements those servants of yours slip into the foodstuffs they serve you in every meal? How are such enhancements different than mine own?" He paused; he always did like winning arguments, even the ones she wasn't really trying to win. "I hear the cauldron calling the kettle black and it absolutely _rings_ of irony."

"Those are physical changes," she said, knowing the point was weak but pushing it through anyway. Loki's spells _did_ bother her, even if she couldn't articulate why. "Playing directly with people's minds is... different."

"The physical _is _psychological, people wouldn't flounce about in jewels if it wasn't." He smiled obligingly and then he _shifted_, suddenly shimmering more brightly than she had ever guessed something could without blinding her. There was now a haze about him like an opal laced with the finest gold dust, his whole figure haloed as if seen through a misty prism that cast subtle rainbows all about him. His robes, too, had changed, to armor of black leather crisscrossed with silvery gold, coming to a finish with a cloak a shade of brilliant envy green. And—his _face_, it was suddenly swallowed up in a helm that had two horns curving up in the front, coming to wicked points. There was no pretense of normalcy or humanity, only a statement of _himself_, his full magical aura and what she presumed to be what he wore amongst his own people on Asgard.

Loki was quite literally a god amongst men, and he was the most beautiful thing Hermione had ever seen.

He took a step forward and while she remained rooted to the ground she couldn't stop staring, couldn't fathom ever wanting to. She had the thought that he was probably trying to intimidate her, testing her in his own strange way way, and with it came the subsequent sudden urge to reach out to him, this creature that shouldn't feel so intoxicatingly familiar yet alien all at the same time. She wanted to somehow communicate to him that he was—was _real_ to her, tangible, that he didn't have to be so alone, that even if she didn't understand him she could sense him, _see_ him, even beneath the dizzying veil of he cast around himself. She wanted to come into some sort of impossible contact, a closeness with him, wanted to fall in and keep falling into him for forever.

His face was still as he stared at her, likely gauging her own reaction. Was he afraid? She touched her hand to the bit of cheek left bare by the helmet. His skin was cool, just as she remembered; it felt like water from the Lake in summer. She drew her hand down in a small, slow motion. She could feel him warming almost imperceptibly where her fingers were pressed, could feel the smoothness of impossibly perfect skin and the slightest sheen of sweat. Nervous, even? He didn't look it, but then, he never did. All the little flickering expressions on his face were as unfathomable to her as a language she could write but could not speak, see but could not hear.

"The typical mortal response is to bow," he said wryly, "but this is acceptable as well." His eyes were on hers, his hands still at his sides. He didn't move. He seemed passive, receptive, but she could feel that he wanted something, _hungered, _that he fidgeted for action but couldn't bring himself to do so. She had had this sense for a long time now but now it seemed so close to the surface she could almost taste it for herself.

"Does no one ever touch you?" she asked, her voice as kind as she could make it. She smiled and made little circles at his cheekbone below his eye with her thumb, remembering a similar action from years ago and how much it had meant to her. She had the sudden insight, watching him be seemingly incapable of action, at how rare it must be for him to reach out as he had back then. Why had he? She didn't know, but she felt honored and afraid.

"Only foolish girls who think to trust a god of lies," he replied, his voice quiet. There was a fleeting look of pain on his face, but unlike even just a moment ago Hermione suddenly f ound herself not looking at him, skipping over the surface of those deceptively clear eyes, but _through_ him, past the hazy veils of bitterness and feigned arrogance, her gaze falling back into the pool of his soul with scarcely a ripple and settling there like a sun-warmed stone.

For all their joking, the person before her was more deeply a lost little boy than she had ever before realized, more than Viktor, more than Harry, more than Ron. She found it entrancing and sad, beautiful and heartbreaking. What magic was this that gave her such a feeling of empathy? She could feel tears welling up and a sadness from nowhere and everywhere but most of all _him _overwhelming her. Was this how he felt, so weary all the time, so full of anxious melancholy and nervous pride? "Why did you let me do that?" she asked, unsure of what exactly just happened but trying to maintain that precious point of contact.

Loki smiled at her. It wasn't as if anything was different about it, the same old sardonic smirk, and somehow it was entirely new, full of undercurrents of anxiety far deeper than his surficial hubris and she had that _comprehension_ for the very first time. "Your magic is a peculiar one," Loki said eventually. He was staring steadily into her in turn, like a boy might an ant that had somehow managed to crawl all the way up his knee. "Part insufferable patience, part naïve empathy, part raw talent for nosing out troublesome truths. And so young..." He stepped forward with a shuddering intake of breath that she cherished; every break in his facade was more treasured to her than a dozen Yule Balls with Quidditch stars. He was dazzling in her eyes and yet more vulnerable than she had ever seen him before. "I wish," he said, with an unmistakable note of longing, "that you were Asgardian."

"You wouldn't have trusted me if I was," she breathed. She could feel his breath now, his scent, something strange and spicy and sweet and pungent all at once like fresh flowering sage, some plant from a faraway world that she longed for him to take her to. "That bothers you, doesn't it? That any of this is happening because I'm mortal and—and naïve. I can't hurt you. I couldn't possibly. That's the only reason you... you like me." She swallowed.

His smile was small. "I understand the appeal of mortals, now." His hand came up, touched her hand that was on his cheek, stilling it, holding it in turn. "It's not just the novelty of your kind, no... there's that too, all these strange things that come out of your mouths, but also—" His fingers wrapped around hers. She could feel calluses, soft and firm, and muscles flexing with every little motion he made. "There's a warmth to mortality, a heat... Because you die, you don't burn out in the same slow sort of death that gods do, where we fade over millennia until we are ghosts, bound deeper and tighter to our fellows with each passing year until we suffocate beneath our _divine _ responsibilities and are no longer ourselves. Can you imagine, for a moment, a world where nothing ever thinks to end? But in your tiny little lives, you are free, how brief the flame yet how bright you can _burn_ when one of you chooses not to mill about like an insect." He cupped her chin with his other hand, cradling her mouth, seeming to drink her in. "Beautiful, really."

_Oh Merlin_. Her date, her first kiss, her friend, sweet and kind and strong and sincere, _Viktor_ was just on the other side of the room and all the while she felt the entirety of her fifteen year old soul fall into a creature who was as likely to kiss her as kill her for compromising that cool facade. "I'm just a girl," she said, feeling little different from that eleven year old who had dribbled tears all over his robes. "I'm just a stupid little girl. An insect."

"You're a remarkably stupid little girl at that," he replied with a sudden fierceness, "if you really think I'll let matters stand as they are." His grip tightened around her jaw. The pressure was—_good_, strangely. There was a physicality to the gesture that she was drawn to, the sudden queer desire to press against someone and be crushed in return. She didn't care that it hurt a bit. That wasn't the point at all. "I've been looking, little Hermione, and there are ways to change you, _deify_ you. Maybe not now—maybe in five, ten years, after you've grown bored with tidying up after this lot, you are right in that you are still just a child, but you have so much potential. As a mortal, yes, some small measure of greatness, but as a goddess—" Hermione felt a flicker of delighted fear ripple through her chest, just as surely as he might have plucked the strings of a harp. "I would have you at my side, I would teach you and mold you into something worthy of Asgard, we'd have such power together but what we could do with it..." He laughed, smiling. His hands went to her shoulders and clutched at her, half-shaking in excitement. "And when the time comes, I'd have you by my side on the throne of Asgard, I'd have you giving me counsel in war and in peace and most of all preventing the Realms from stagnation_, _just imagine! I'd have you as my friend for long past this mortal coil of yours and we could change _worlds_ together, make this whole universe a better place!" He stopped himself, pausing for a moment. "You are fifteen," he finished, almost breathless and his smile broadening, "and I see in you the potential for godhood. Is that not enough?"

She couldn't help but smile back, though her heart was breaking.

"Herm-own-ninny? Is everything alright?"

She turned towards the too-familiar voice and the connection snapped between her and Loki as if cut by a guillotine. It was Viktor, of course, at the entrance to the alcove with their drinks in hand. He looked concerned, but not confused; out of the corner of her eye she saw Loki put a finger to his lips, smiling, then flicker out of existence. She wondered what spells Loki had cast this time. Had she appeared to be sitting alone this entire time to the outside world, talking to herself?

She blinked back tears. "Perfectly," she said, smiling and pulling herself upright. "This night is going just perfectly."

**A/N**:

I'm concerned about the sap in this chapter—I want to make clear that there are some serious issues underpinning their developing friendship, but still give Hermione her happy moment. This is a tricky thing to juggle, since the story's been from her perspective and her perspective alone thus far. So, if you feel like I overdid it, do please tell and I can go back and tweak it as I have in previous chapters.

Edited 11/15.


	6. The Fifth Year

**The Fifth Year**

**June 19th, 1996**

Loki was patient. He had to be. Happiness had never come easily to him, but he had learned that he had to wait for it—wait long endless years before he could earn a smile from Father, or praise from Thor. He had to be patient as he toiled and perfected the only crafts suited to him, magics and scraps of mischief that when played correctly could turn a battle in his favor or have the whole court roaring in laughter at his wit, such bright happy moments could shone like stars in his memory palace... though he knew them to be little more than pebbles found on a beach, scraps of favor tossed his way when they grew bored with his ever-shining brother.

Even such times were few and far between, however, and the waiting was not always worth it. Oh, how he'd _clutch _at those memories, scrabble at them until he had ground them near to dust.

He clenched his fists, nails biting little crescents into his palms. Even in this trifling affair here on Midgard, what was supposed to be his _escape_ from it all, he found himself forced to wait for when one woman—not even a woman, a _girl—_to finally awaken. He had long since finished composing his lecture to Hermione on the merits of _not _getting herself killed, leaving him with... nothing, nothing at all to do, to say, only ten thousand thoughts to think again and again and again as if he was actually _concerned _about the trite little creature. Ah, yes. Left pace about as if he was tethered to her presence like a pet and _observe _the sallowness to her cheeks, the flat expression that lacked all of her usual vivacity, a mouth that would not move to argue with him, hands that could not cast a single spell to make herself better. It left him with a peculiar pain in his chest that he couldn't quite place; worry, perhaps. That idiot healer had even given her some potion to suppress her dreams, leaving Loki with nothing except a warm body whose similarity to Hermione seemed coincidental and cruel: he couldn't even sink into her mind and berate here there.

When she finally began to stir, he kept himself invisible for a few minutes to gauge her reaction. Perhaps she'd wake up screaming, still thinking herself in the throes of her first proper fight; perhaps she'd learn her lesson then, relieving the experience, day by day as she discovered that trauma was a stain she would never be able to wash from her dewy white innocence.

Instead, she woke up slowly, quietly. Hermione waited patiently for her eyes to regain focus as she opened her eyes and stared at a too-familiar ceiling, regaining her bearings and wiggling her toes one by one. Insufferably sensible girl. He almost forgave her for a moment. When she finally turned her head to the side to look around, something in his chest sang with mixed rage and relief. "You idiot girl!" he hissed, dismissing his invisibility with a wave of his hand. He was next to the bed again in two fast strides and he put a hand to her brow, checking her condition for the thousandth time.

Hermione was _now_ largely undamaged, despite how long it had taken him to respond to the crimson flames burning too brightly in their vial beneath his robes. He wondered whether he'd ever forgive his brother for having such an insufferably long feast; yes, Thor was heir apparent, but they seemed to honor every damn breath he took these days, _particularly _the ones he wasted on defending his own pride.

And then, once Loki had finally arrived, the scut of a healer kept pumping her full of potions to numb the pain before waddling off to fuss over the other patients, clearly not understanding the severity of the curse she had been hit with. Idiots! One would think that humans would be wiser in the magical world, knowing that bloodless wounds could bleed the worst. While Loki was no healer by his own people's standards, he had more than passed the equivalent of a human lifetime learning the trade in order to better patch up his brother lest Father get upset at them both for putting themselves in danger; Loki had been able to remove the poison of the curse, leaving only comparatively benign wounds that were already beginning to scar. Consequently, she wouldn't spend weeks or months in recovery, only a few days, and would never have any idea just how too soon she had almost passed into Death's own realm.

"Nice to see you too," Hermione murmured, closing her eyes again.

"You almost died!" he snapped, unable to stop himself and not really wanting to. Hermione, unlike his brother and the rest of his ilk, could take criticism, even if she didn't immediately accept it; he reveled in the ability to express himself with such immediacy. "If you hadn't finished putting those protective runes I taught you into your robes, I don't know if you'd still be— " His hand grabbed at hers and squeezed. He felt something hot rising in his throat, like a fever.

"Dumbledore was there," she said, tired, eyes still closed. Arguing was good. Arguing meant she was that much closer to being herself again, even if her arguments were bad.

"Your _Dumbledore_ only had eyes for that idiot friend of yours that you always insist on saving! Your _Dumbledore _would have quite happily let you die in a puddle of your own blood if it meant keeping your friend from getting a simple scratch. Your _Dumbledore _for that matter would gladly love another martyr for his side; he certainly seems to relish in them!" He withdrew his hand from hers and made fists at his sides. He knew she wanted comfort, but if he touched her now he'd forget himself and break her bones in his botheration. He tried to settle into pacing back and forth instead for the sake of his sanity, venting it off the best he could. Oh, he could _really_ do with blasting a few giants now, maybe after this he could talk Thor into going on another patrol with him...

"Is everyone alright?" she asked, not seeming to want to address the inadequacies of her own cause.

Loki sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Even with the limited training she had managed to learn from him, she was still absurdly easy to read; sometimes he could see in the images in her mind without even trying when their eyes happened to meet, the things she imagined for him, _them, _as if there could ever be such a thing as she could understand it_. _They were the fantasies of a child, really, wandering around golden fields under the sun hand in hand, or sitting together quietly in the library, comfortably nestled within each other's arms perusing ancient tomes, or alone on the shores of a lake their love like a sunset, her hands moving through his hair and her breath on his lips. Warm, small things, mirages. Yes: they were the dreams of a girl but he drank them in and didn't tell her what she betrayed.

Such trust. He treasured it like a child would treasure a pretty shell on a beach, something that had caught his eye and seemed to sparkle only for him. He knew there were other mortals, billions even on Midgard alone, and over his life span there would be millions of Hermione Grangers, but _this_ was the one he had found and he—_cared_ for this one, or as much as he could care for something. He'd be most upset if she broke herself in an effort to be brave_._

"Yes, mostly," he said after a few moments. "No thanks to you, no doubt. I took the liberty of reading the memories of some of the mindless people milling about in this hell-hated room while I was waiting for you to awake." When her lips cracked open, likely to protest at the invasion of privacy, he snapped, "And _don't_ tell me it wasn't justified, I hadn't the slightest idea of what had happened to you. I didn't enjoy sifting about in their messy little minds any more than I might have enjoyed a romp in the mud, but it was necessary."

She was quiet, and he didn't think she because she was too exhausted to speak. While he liked being right, and liked rubbing it in even more—he didn't get the opportunity to do so very often amongst his Asgardian peers lest he betray his disregard for them all—he recognized that this was perhaps not the proper time. Even Hermione had her limits, and he knew not to play an overtense violin.

"There was some good spellwork from you," he continued, after draining the venom from his voice as best he could. "Very _selfless_, casting shielding spells and wards on everyone around you and not bothering with yourself. If you were just a little bit flashier I'm sure that Headmaster of yours would have decided on a new pet with you." He stopped. No, not everyone had escaped unscathed. The memories of a few of the other humans flashed into his eyes, their incoherent horror at the realization that what they were doing—oh surprise of the century!— could actually cost them their pathetic mortal _lives _and that one of their own had accordingly been ended. Idiot children. At least they seemed to be learning their lesson, judging by their somber faces as they wandered about the ward; Thor certainly never seemed to, always willing to charge in without a thought for the exact parameters of their immortality. Mortals possessed fear enough to treasure their fellows instinctively, one of the few perks he could see for having a human for a friend. How they clung to each other, rats on a raft on a stormy sea, how they huddled together, how they clustered, how so very desperate they were for warmthto guard against Death's icy touch_. Oh_, and how it warmed him too, just to hold himself close to these strange creatures who craved every second of their miserable little lives so very deeply, and would do anything to prolong it one pitiless second longer."One did die," he added after a pause. "That shapeshifting fugitive your friends are always on about. Sirius, I believe his name is. Or is it 'was'?" He paused, thoughtful. "English is such a strange tongue."

Hermione's eyes snapped opened. "Harry, is he—"

"Self flagellating, as he ought to be," Loki said harshly. "Maybe he won't try such a stupid stunt again."

Hermione opened her mouth as if to argue, but then stopped. Very practical. One of the things that made him so fond of her. She had her high ideals, her unnervingly unflagging sense of compassion, but she would also always make a point to listen to reason once she had calmed down from her initial self righteous indignation. It was a rare combination: most people who had strong opinions liked to keep them exactly as initially created. The pair they'd make on Asgard, a liar and a truthseeker—assuming that in her incipient wisdom she didn't off herself first.

"I'm at least half that stupid stunt," she said grimly. "Don't place all the blame on Harry just because you don't like him."

"Then you are the half that kept it from outright suicide." He couldn't stop his face from twisting into something between a grimace and a smile. "I am heartened that you are taking our little lessons to heart in turn—the touch with the centaurs was delightfully diabolical."

"I'd have done that anyway," she said, her voice weary. Was that guilt on her face? Fascinating, how resilient her moral center was. "Don't mistake flexibility for devolution."

"And don't mistake survivalism for immorality," he shot back. "None of this was necessary; you know it, and by their guilt ridden faces, your little friends know it as well." And they were all so very far away from thinking of this sort of thing as _fun__, _least of all Hermione who took everything with almost saintly seriousness.

She shook her head. "I _had_ to go," she said, her voice taking on an insistent strain. "Harry and the rest of them, they could have gotten themselves hurt if I hadn't been there to help. You don't understand."

"I do," he snapped. "I do, and better than you know. I've accompanied my brother on ten thousand trials and tribulations, few of which did anything other than bruise bones and bloody blades. You, however, are not strong enough for such things—you are still considered a child even by your own people!"

"I'm strong even compared to most adults!" She looked fiercely up into him and he wished it was true. "Maybe I wouldn't be able to keep the likes of you _gods_ from harm, but I _did_help Harry and _that's_ what matters. So, no. You really don't understand."

He stopped his pacing and came to her bedside again. The worst of the anger was out of him, and he didn't feel like this was an argument to address now, at least not directly; he took her hand. "Your wound—it was particularly... cruel, for one of your kind, if quite clever in execution. I've done my best by it but it _will_ scar, if not as much as maybe it could have been if you didn't have a god at your beck and call." His lips quirked in a smile. "And not an... ugly scar, by way of such things—a bold slash from your left hip to your right shoulder in a lovely shade of dusky rose. You could glamor it, if you'd prefer, but I must say that I find it quite... striking. Not many women would wear such a wound of war."

"You saw me _naked_?" she asked, her trademark indignation returning to her voice. It was almost like she was well again.

Almost. He squeezed her hand, limp as it was in his grasp. "I've seen your soul," he replied coolly, "your heart, your mind. Can you truly say your flesh is a more intimate thing to experience?"

_Yes_, a part of his mind whispered,but he dismissed it. He couldn't abide the touch of most—cloying, grasping movements that were as repugnant in their hunger as in their lack of self awareness. He had spent long endless years where the only physical contact he'd have with other friends was at the receiving end of a hardened fist that Loki was never quite quick enough to get out of the way of, or wrestling when it would be his face inevitably pressed into the too-hard ground by fingers slick with sweat while everyone all around him would laugh in delight. The instructors called it playfighting and deemed it good fun for young boys, but Loki had never called it play, always taking it too seriously for it to either be 'good' or 'fun' in any way—and truly, he had never been young. Not with Thor always towering over him, whose sheer ability to get himself into stupid situations had required that Loki grow up quickly to rescue him. Thor's thank yous would always consist in 'affectionately' clutching him at the neck, half choking him while telling him just how much he _cared _for his little brother's little tricks. Or, for the truly desperate, there was always the sickly sweet sensuality of a lady of the court, and the subsequent rumors and obligatory game of sorry courtship to plague him for years on end.

Thor and the Warriors Three mocked him sometimes for being an ascetic, but it wasn't that. _No. _He was as hungry as they were, _needing _as much as they did; it was just that he'd rather starve than eat such foul fare.

But... Hermione... he knew her heart, and knew she could never stomach the thought of hurting him. He felt safe in her impotence. She was as powerless against him as she was predictable, but he had yet to grow tired of her. A good tool, a safe one, one that he knew how to use. And, possibly...

"Maybe not," she sighed, not wanting to argue. Pity. He loved it when she pushed. She revealed so much of herself. Sometimes, she even made him think. "Thank you. For coming."

"The banquet was a bore anyway," he drawled. "My brother was getting honored for saving a kitten or some such thing. I welcomed the distraction."

She smiled, her eyes heavy lidded. "I'm sure," she murmured.

The best lies were the ones that were true; she believed them the most deeply. A god, coming down from on high to be some mortal's personal healer, all because he was _bored_? Preposterous. So here he was, hovering over her side while in Asgard another speech about Thor's innate good nature was projected far and wide, and he wouldn't have it any other way. She was completely different from the things he hated, and yet exactly the same in all the ways he loved—a stubbornness so sweetly coupled with compassion and cleverness, cool and calm despite the heat of the self righteous embers at her heart.

"Besides," he continued on, quite deliberately cutting off his own train of thought, "your people are so entertainingly _brutal_ to each other. I've never seen a spell quite like the one that was cast on you, or on some of the others in this ward. Sorcery begets a subtler sort of violence than what I typically see in Asgard... certainly a step above bashing at each other with hammers and cleavers. Still barbaric, mind you, but at least your sort bother to be a bit creative about it." He pursed his lips. "Your wars. Such wastes of time and energy. The ill your people do to each other because they simply cannot contain their own idiocy will never cease to amaze me."

Hermione sighed. She'd heard this before, but he could see it on her eyes—she was starting to agree. "I know," she said, resigned. "It's all so silly."

"No argument?" Loki asked. _Almost there._ "Tell me it is the potions that still your tongue; your nurse seemed so very determined to administer whatever she could to dull you."

"No." Her eyelids were fluttering with the effort to stay open. Her face, however, was creamier, rosier than it had been during these long hours he had been at her side. He was again subsumed with the awareness that she was sweetly, exquisitely alive. "No, you're right. It's not Pomfrey's fault. I'm just... not good enough. Not yet."

There was a long silence. Loki simply... watched her breathe, and this time, didn't mind it so much. Perhaps he could wait for her. This wasn't so bad. "Your cleverness is going to get you killed one day," he said eventually, his voice soft. He ran his thumb up the side of her hand to the soft skin at the inside of her wrist. Vulnerable, now, but so very **warm**. Asgard needed her. _I need her_. He didn't really care for the thought that maybe her world needed her too; Midgard could sod itself. They didn't deserve anything so fine, certainly not when her own people seemed intent on breaking her. "Promise you'll at least give me a few centuries first."

She was smiling, eyes closed. "You keep trying to teach me things that are useful for you _gods_ to know, but never anything for defending myself against my own classmates." She opened her eyes and looked up into him, suddenly intently focused "I don't want to hurt anyone," she said, her voice serious, "but—after this—I'd much appreciate learning a bit more defensive magic. I can sneak about the castle with you like a pro already... Remember, that time Snape walked right up to us and you undid his top button?..." She wheezed a bit with laughter at the memory. Loki's smile broadened until he felt like it would break. Ah. The bent-nosed fellow who wanted the Astronomy Tower all to himself and his own angst, coming up right when Loki had been teaching her the Asgardian names for all the stars in the sky. He had never seen Hermione cast a Silencing Charm so quickly in her life than she had to keep the black-robed bat from hearing her break out into giggles... "And—I haven't forgotten. I know we haven't talked much about it, but I—I feel like if it really comes down to it, I really could kill someone." She bit her lip. "If someone was threatening you, or Harry, or Ron. I don't care if they were a god or a human or a... whatever. If I had to, I think I could."

"Did you?"

"No. I was clever enough that I didn't have to." She paused. "But, I have to be realistic. I might not always be clever enough to avoid having to do... _that_. I don't much like the idea, but I... I think I could." She swallowed visibly, and the next bit came out like the exhalation of a breath, a secret: "Kill someone."

Ah. This complex. At least part of why Loki thought her such a wise choice of partner was her natural tendency towards the flavor of humbleness that he found the least offensive; Father would think her a fitting companion for a potential king. His brother, on the other hand, only had a hammer and a disarming smile. When it came to guardianship of the realm, Loki could not even strive to be an equal—it was win or lose, king or pawn, and out of the two of them Loki was the only one who would bother to read the rules of the game of thrones. Thor would never stand a chance, once Loki had established himself as the better heir through his better choices, particularly his choice of company. "I will teach you these things," he said, with a sudden fierceness that clenched at his chest. "I will teach you to protect and defend yourself, as I would protect and defend you with my own hand. I swear it on my blood as Odinson, on my eyes and my lips and my hands and my heart." He touched his hand to his chest, completing the formal oath.

She laughed, nervous. "A simple yes would have sufficed."

"You wouldn't believe me otherwise," Loki shot back, irked at her reaction; where was her gratitude? Lost in childlike confusion, he supposed. "You seem to think I want you as helpless damsel in distress, and nothing could be further from the truth. If there is anything I cannot stand it is weakness, and you, at least, have the potential to be everything but." He squeezed her hand. "You always doubt me, but do not doubt this."

"You aren't the liar you think you are, Loki." She coughed, her body shuddering helplessly with it, but her words rang clear and true. "I believe you. I always believe you, even when there is more to what you do than what you say."

He felt a heat in his eyes. He was tired, emotional. Healing her had drained him more than he had thought, and even without this, emotions always seemed to come to the surface more readily around her, like a fountain that had found a fissure to a far away surface. It was difficult not to let his facade simply _break_ when he was with her, even when she was in comparatively unreceptive states such as this. "I swear few oaths," he murmured. "It is a great honor to be graced by such a thing from a prince of Asgard."

"A formality," she said, as if correcting him. "You do not even believe yourself, do you? You tell me yourself so frequently that you are a bitter insincere creature but there _is_ an honesty to you. It's strange that you do not see it for yourself..."

He gave a shuddering sigh. He had come here to be angry with her and _she_ lectured _him_ instead. "Your blind faith is a beautiful thing." He felt his forehead crease, and his eyes closed as he forced back the heat of hot tears. He was _very _tired_. _"You are the only person I can abide such a thing in. Why?"

It was an old question, and she gave her old answer. "Because I'm really, really, smart?"

"Why is it that we are reduced to such cliché when we speak of how we _feel_ instead of how we _think_?"

"Maybe because there's no real language for it," she replied, after a few moments of worrying her lower lip. "Feelings, that is. I suppose physical actions express something of it, but we—" She flushed, regaining something of a healthy complexion. "We have a very limited vocabulary at current."

"But a satisfying one." His hand squeezed hers. "I would have your hand in mine for a thousand years if it would keep my tongue from tripping itself in its inadequacy, as it so often seems to at times like these." He sounded like such a fool even there, but she drove him to it. Confusing wench. So few could make Silvertongue stutter over his words.

"And I would hold yours," Hermione replied wryly, "if it would mean you would shut up and stop giving me a headache."

Right. The fragility of the mortal form. He murmured an incantation under his breath, one of the Wizarding ones so that the maddeningly incompetent nurse wouldn't think he had put Hermione under some sort of exotic hex, and watched as the tension faded from her brow.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice growing quiet. "I should sleep now..."

"Yes," Loki said. His heart lurched uncomfortably in his chest, watching her. Such trust. He waited until her breathing settled into something smooth and measured before beginning to think of leaving, but even then he found himself unwilling to move. She was not particularly beautiful, nor powerful, nor clever, nor compassionate, but rather—she was _all_ of these things. Seeing those qualities spelled out across her face more clearly than any rune was enough to make his soul clench—and seeing her so close to death had shaken him more than he would have guessed before he had felt the burn of her little vial. She had such considerate, careful ways, matched by an almost unconscionable curiosity about all things in the Nine Realms. She didn't hesitate in her kindness, not even for his tricks or moods except as one might step inside a doorway to watch a storm: she did not hide and he had never known such a thing before. He called her naïve but knew this wasn't strictly true; he could see that thin thread of fear that strung together her anxieties and insecurities, he could follow it through the fresh and vibrant paths of her still-developing mind, but it was not a thing that consumed her.

No. She was in balance, a peculiar harmony despite discordant elements. He looked at the image reflected in her eyes and saw a thing he could scarcely believe was himself. It was... addictive, the good regard she so openly gave him, and more so because he knew she was _true_.

To be honest, it had been pity at first, a peculiar, needling temptation to wipe away tears. He blamed Mother for that, her long insistence on treating everything with kindness having finally, unexpectedly, becoming habit. He hadn't thought much of her after that first encounter; he had become frustrated once more with his research, and decided that he was obligated to once more return to Asgard lest his idiot brother guess that he actually was trying to avoid him.

He certainly hadn't been expecting to be _confronted_ in quite that way when he returned later to explore another angle of his research. What a vibrant little creature she was, like some butterfly suddenly landing on the palm of his hand. He could have crushed her, and wouldn't have thought much of it at the time, but chose to watch for a while instead. What a tiny thing. What _life._

Bored, as Loki often was, he kept returning, primarily for books, but her company became increasingly desired in and of itself as well. She was quick on the uptake, delightfully so. Though her understanding of magic was crude, as one could expect from a race who could only make a study of it for a hundred years at a time before dropping down dead, she was also dizzyingly eager to learn. Unexpectedly, in himself he found an equally bewildering desire to _affect_ her, to teach, to mentor even. Few on Asgard demonstrated any interest in the magical arts, let alone actual talent, and beyond that the drive to do more than petty party tricks. Loki wanted a match, a _mate _like two knights in a game of chess: this spry little mortal, still a child even by her own race's standards, promised that and more.

Less amiable company approached, interrupting his thoughts. He dispelled his silencing cantrips with a wave, lest they notice that the entire area had been stealthed; no need to arouse unnecessary suspicion. He did not have the raw power of the Allfather, perhaps, and Odin's magic was of a very different sort, tied as it was to Yggdrasil itself. However, tricks of light and lies suited Loki well and it was certainly more than these mortals could manage. When one of them bustled in, the idiot healer, followed by the irritatingly colorful head instructor, they did not see him, nor had they any reason to look.

Still, their eyes were suspicious. Intrigued, Loki stepped back from Hermione's side to a corner of the room, reinforcing the spells to dispel his shadow, his breath, the sound of his heart and the padding of his feet.

"I don't mean to belittle myself," the woman said, casting her crude diagnostic spells over Hermione. Could they not simply _feel_ the damage? When he had first lain hands on her after he had arrived he could sense every oozing wound in her magical core as if they were his own. Then again, the comparatively paltry amount of time he had devoted to the art of healing was more than the lifetime of most their kind. Meatbags, barely even worth the labor of their birthing. "But, she shouldn't doing so _well_. I would have had her in the Ward for weeks given the state she came in, but then when I check up on her later she's—better. Almost fine, really. She could even be out in a day or two."

The old man—Dumbledore, Loki recalled—sighed heavily. He looked distracted. Was his favorite little boy doing poorly? "Poppy, are you certain that this is—"

'Poppy' nodded wearily. "There were healing spells cast on her. Not mine, and none of the other professors were in here either. I—I can't place them. They are very unusual, nothing like what we covered at Mungo's. I don't think they're malignant, her recovery has been nothing short of miraculous, but..." She wrung her hands. "You _did_ ask me to report anything that seemed unusual about any of the three of them. Good or bad."

Dumbledore nodded gravely, placing his hand over Hermione's body—at least someone in this dreary castle could cast some magic without those sticks of theirs. "I worry about her," the pompous fool murmured, thinking she needed his concern. "Madame Pince reports that she spends most of her time in the library, which is not unusual for a student of her intelligence. While I've—rarely—traced her to the Restricted Section, I have found too frequently Dark Magic is just sufficiently creative use of otherwise mundane spellwork, and according to her instructors she has gotten creative indeed." He fiddled with his half-crescent glasses. Why those with magic suffered such banal physical defaults in themselves Loki could not fathom. "I have wondered whether she has gotten—distracted, this last year."

Loki chuckled. Distracted? Only because his royal concern couldn't be arsed to give her the time of day except to tell her to take more classes sometime _else_.

Dumbledore was frowning now, more deep fissures forming on his brow. Poor mortal. Every time he comes across a puzzle he cannot solve, another wrinkle scars his face. No wonder humans look so old so early; they didn't understand a thing. "I recognize it," he said slowly. _Oh?_ "I am afraid it has been a good many years since I have studied such things, but—yes. I believe our Miss Granger is protected by some higher power. For what purpose I do not know, but it is one that the Founders were familiar with. There is an archway in the library with a similar signature... perhaps something, some_one_ saw her through that, and thought to protect her."

Loki crossed his arms, faintly surprised. The signature was his, of course, from healing her recently, and the library archway his little trick to travel more easily between worlds without having to rely on Heimdall, a narrow little root of Yggdrasil worming its way across worlds that he had bound to do his bidding when he was young and couldn't abide curfews.

He eyed the old man and and the gravity he wrapped around himself like an overwrought set of drapes. Congratulations: you have put two and two together, even if you failed to find four. He knew Hermione to be somewhat unique amongst her kind, but their lack of cleverness was really quite dull. No wonder he needed no enchantments to draw her closer: she hardly had any real alternatives for intellectual stimulation.

The old man stood up straight. "But the gods, such as they are, do not do such things lightly." _You didn't know the circumstances of Thor encountering "human beings" for the first time, apparently. _"I sense no malice. We leave this be, and do not speak of it."

"Miss Granger?"

"Not even to her," the old man said, his voice sonorous and stern. "Perhaps she will be made aware of it in time, but there is no reason to distract her further from her studies, not for something she is not yet ready to understand."

_Fool_, Loki thought. _All she ever needed was a friend and she would have been yours for forever. Your Potter is a quivering case of hormones while Hermione excels even where she finds it frivolous_ _to try_. _And you—I may patronize but you __condescend__, y__ou smother your greatest source of light because it promises to burn so bright as to blind you..._

"Tell me when Harry awakens," Dumbledore ordered sternly, turning to leave. "He will be requiring some words."

And he left. The apparent greatest wizard of the century, ignoring the greatest resource their petty little war could have possibly hoped for. And the healer, who as far as Loki could tell would take the old man's quivering jowls as divinatory premonition. Insipid mortals. He couldn't abide them. The sooner Hermione had decided she had had enough of this place's foolery, the better. If it was willful ignorance she craved, then there was enough of that on Asgard, where at least life spans were long enough to occasionally resolve differences...

Once they had left her curtained-off corner of the healing chambers, he stepped back over to Hermione's side, sketching more runes of healing over her body and watching them sink in through the starched white sheets into the relaxed flesh of her sleeping body. He then placed, tentative, his hands at either side of her face, cradling her along the lines of her jaw. She was so warm, so soft. With his thumbs he traced twin _ur_s into her cheekbones, and watched as the glowing golden lines faded beneath her skin.

What an insufferably exquisite creature she could become.

He would train her, this summer, this whole next year, assuming she didn't manage to get herself killed first, he'd train her to defend herself and to fight back, to give no quarter and have no mercy. He'd teach her to be hard, to be cold, to kill and not be killed herself, he'd teach her when and how to run away in case her choice of friends made survival impossible. His stomach lurched at the thought of her dead. So much wasted time and talent. It was the curse of those like them, he supposed, to be so easily ruined by the mobbing of the thoughtless cretins that populated their worlds.

But, every child had a phase, he supposed, where they had the irrepressible urge to make bad decisions for themselves. It was a part of growing up, particularly when one was in the thralls of a society where asininity afforded acuity no respect. Thor was still rather locked in it, always running about shoving his precious hammer in where it wasn't wanted or needed. Loki himself had destroyed a few lifeless planets while still honing his magical abilities, broken a few hearts when his lies were caught; perhaps he owed her a war and a soggy little island before he took her for his own.

Asgard could wait. He could wait. He had already waited centuries. And truth be told—he didn't so mind the time he spent waiting for her. He brushed back a few fine tendrils of hair from her face. Sensing his touch, she seemed to smile.

Loki pulled himself away regretfully, taking a moment to still his mind before focusing his magic on some of those broken memories the survivors had had. They were impressionistic, garbled, a gibbering panic, with none of the careful rigor that he or Hermione would organize their own experiences and store them within memory palaces for near-eidetic retrieval, but it would have to do. Holding an image of the Department of Mysteries intently in his head, he transported himself using the _sense_ of the place. Hermione's classmates were poor observers, but collectively their fragmented memories sufficed: Loki successfully found himself in the foyer where the "battle"—if one could call a bunch of scared little children getting chased around by some mean-spirited adults a battle—had taken place.

Humans in burdensome-looking dark blue robes were bustling about, apparently still assessing the damage. Collectively they still seemed in a state of shock that it had happened at all, that hooligans had snuck themselves into their inner sanctum and had subsequently trashed the place. No alarms had gone off with his arrival, as he had predicted: he had correctly guessed that anything security oriented had been stripped down with the attack, and putting any such wards back up was unlikely to be prioritized in light of such a disaster. After all, who would return for a second visit to the scene of a crime, particularly when the place was now quite literally crawling with those who had promised to protect it?

Loki could have broken in himself, if he had been willing to take a few weeks to untangle the mess of wards—that or cause a huge bit of bedlam that he'd likely have to explain to Hermione, which he wasn't much in the mood for. Really, though, this was so much easier. Loki loved a good heist as much as the next trickster, but he simply couldn't resist when an easy opportunity presented itself as this had. None of their Unspeakables—what unwarrantably dramatic namesthese humans had—so much as twitched as he moved through the blasted corridors of their hallowed Department of Mysteries, stepping delicately over fallen columns and broken bodies with a broad smile on his face.

He had a few tasks set for today's excursion. First, and most importantly, he made his way to the Hall of Prophecy.

Loki had heard the stories, of course. That he was no son of Odin, that he was an evildoer doomed to begin Ragnorak, that he'd kill a cousin in a fit of jealousy with a sprig of mistletoe, that he mated with giants and had had a snake that could encircle the world and an eight legged horse for his brood. It was easy to shrug such stories off as the delusions of mortals too star crossed to see straight: such a surreal creativity that a short life span begets! The fables were almost _cute—_except that Loki knew that some mortals were truly gifted with a touch of prophecy and knew to take their wandering words with some measure of seriousness.

His brother hadn't cared how often the mortals had predicted that his death would come either directly or indirectly at Loki's hands—Thor had thought merely thought them entertaining falsehoods for when he was drunk on sweet mead at Midgardian feasts thrown, as always, in his honor. Even Hogun had cracked a smile at some of the more fantastic fables—Loki, father of Fenrir the wolf? All the same, the possibility that some of these tales could have a thread of truth winding their way through them was almost too much to bear sometimes, when he was left standing next to his blonde blue-eyed brother feeling like an utter alien to his boisterous behavior, when his magic was mocked at the banquet hall as peripheral trickery as they recounted the latest battles that had in fact been _won _by his witching ways, when all the court of Asgard looked towards him without anything friendly or familiar in their eyes...

Loki closed his eyes, the weight of a thousand years settling on his brow. Even the most miserable of these humans only had to suffer their mistreatment for a few score of their decades—Hermione, seemingly depthless in her capacity for compassion, could not possibly come to understand what it was to sit in the shadows for so very, very long.

At least she tried. At least she asked questions, at least she was curious, at least she _cared, _at least there was some modicum of interest in who he was other than as the brother of Thor and the son of Odin, even if perhaps she did not care or question the right things of him.

He opened his eyes again, and carried on walking down the long broken corridors. Hermione liked the idea of fixing him, of being some lost little boy that could be bandaged up and made all better. As... soothing such compresses could be, they were no solution. _No. _What he needed was here, and now: information, so that he may learn how to walk forward into his own future and not trip himself up over some ridiculous notion of fate. He was Loki, of Asgard, and he could fix his fortunes for himself.

Much of why he had initially come to Hogwarts had been to do precisely this: to research the mortals' own accounts of the gods, as many of Midgard's wild-eyed stories of Ragnorak and other high legends had been produced by genuine prophets... but they were so mixed in with the ravings typical of amanita eaters that fact could hardly be distilled from feast hall fictions. He had already exhausted so many other libraries on this pathetic world so peopled with poor record keepers, but he had held on to a hope that he might—finally—find something.

Stepping into the Hall of Prophecy, he knew immediately that he wouldn't find any answers here either. Of course, it had been apparent from the memories of the children that the place had been virtually destroyed, but there was—nothing. The crystal spheres that held the prophecies were all shattered. Truly, all of them. What idiot had decided to distill such priceless things into such fragile forms? Typical, really. With such short lives, of course they couldn't think so far in advance.

Loki looked out over the sea of broken glass and felt nothing call to him as prophecy would to the person it spoke of. He knew he could not have come sooner without considerable effort on his part, as the existence of the Hall of Prophecy was one of the few genuinely well kept secrets in this world, but having come too _late _was still a bitter disappointment indeed. He did not wish to trust anything other than a primary source when it came to his future, his long time spent in the Hogwarts library only having proved that if there was anything wizards were worse at than telling the truth it was keeping records of when they happened to speak it.

What wars these humans wage. They would destroy the fount of power itself, _knowledge_, in seeking more power.

Disappointing creatures.

Loki closed his eyes for a moment, willing his own frustration away. There were no other routes he could really take take; all that remained to him was the incomprehensible dribble he found in Hogwarts' 'mythology' texts. How inglorious, that a liesmith could not puzzle out the truth, and likely never would. What was left to him now?—to attempt to plan for every possible foreseen outcome? It'd be enough to drive him mad.

Setting it aside, he forcibly turned his attention towards the next attraction, the so-called "Time Room". He teleported himself there quickly, not wishing to dwell in his impasse further.

The memories had shown the entirety of the cabinet full of Time Turners to have been blasted to bits, but he didn't think this was quite accurate. No, he could still sense a bit of Hermione in there, somewhere in the rubble of sparkling glass and twisted metal: her magical signature had become something of a beacon to him these last three years. After a moment of concentration, he reached into the mess and withdrew her Time Turner, its magic shining bright to his eyes. _Yes_. He had cast spells of invulnerability on it, fearing something just like this could happen given her government's pathetic history in protecting its own—consequently, hers alone appeared to have survived.

Time Turner magic was a peculiar thing, something that he had of course found immediately intriguing. He hadn't intended on spending more time with that girl who did not name herself by her father; a passing amusement, an incidental anecdote, and nothing more. But when he had walked into that library months later and she was there again with that strange signature bleeding out of her every pore—one he'd later learn to identify as 'tachyons'—he could not help but ask questions... it was in his nature to seek out what went unseen, and when such an honest soul hid things, he knew it would be worth uncovering. Hermione had probably thought him staring at her budding breasts, the hormonal bint.

Hermione had a good many things to hide indeed. Some out of fear, and oh, she _did_ fear him, he could smell that in her every breath when he leaned in to scare her a little bit more. Delightful, the racing of her heart, the sweat that would bead on her brow. She didn't always tell him this; he supposed she thought it better for his nerves, to omit such things—but at least she never _lied _in what she did share_._

Loki knew better than anyone that an individual felt most secure in their insecurity when they thought no one knew about it. He was content to let her simmer; how could he not be, when he knew eventually, if not immediately, she would find it in herself to look him in the eye and tell him all? It was her nature, perhaps his favorite attribute of hers.

He did not lie when he had told her he considered her beautiful. Such thought she put into all things, such careful _thought_. It need only be applied in the correct direction and she could change worlds...

As such, Hermione had been voraciously thorough in her attempt to understand her own people's little gift to her, but after having exhausted all resources on the mechanics of the device, she had in that infinitely pragmatic fashion of hers declared her quest futile and veered into other veins of research. Loki had quite willingly obliged in the distraction, teaching her how to _shape_ and not just _cast _spells without having to use all those silly scraps of long-dead languages they taught at her school. She learned quickly; and he had discovered the surprising joy of correcting the ignorance of others.

Unlike her, however, he had never stopped his inquiries into how the clever little devices worked. He'd later conclude it was likely a good thing that she had stopped herself: if she knew the truth, Loki suspected she would have broken her Time Turner herself.

It had taken some creative deductive thinking on his part. A device so powerful would not have simply been entrusted to a hapless schoolgirl—there was a reason they gave it to her. There was _always_ a reason. Hermione had a habit of warming the hearts of those around her, superiors who all somehow managed to see themselves in her—what malleability she possessed!—but that would not have been sufficient in and of itself. All bureaucracies were the same in that they were cold, and the curiosity of a single child could not make those gears move.

There was a reason, and that reason was that the Time Turners were limited prototypes who needed a guinea pig for long term consequences. Who better than a female Muggleborn child who was easily sworn into eager secrecy, who looked like the perfect candidate to bestow such a gift upon by outside observers, but who no one who mattered in their hypocritical society would mind seeing dead if use of Time Turners turned out to erode the soul? Humans were most unkind to each other. He wondered when Hermione would realize that she was one of the few genuinely compassionate people alive, who didn't wallow in their own pathetic personalities. He wondered if she'd still be a kind creature, or if she'd turn into something as cold and crisp as pool of ice. Either could make for a competent queen.

Loki had came to this hypothesis shortly after he had first inquired as to her little talisman, watching her get all excited over how much work she could put herself through. Disappointed with her ignorance, and intrigued at the possibility of creating such a thing for himself, he had set his sight on unraveling this little mystery, when he wasn't called away to accompany his brother on some new triviality.

Careful examination of the Time Turner's magic had rendered the discovery of a slender black thread from the Time Turner, detectable only to the subtlest eye; he doubted Hermione could have seen it in even a hundred years of training. That black little line was a flow of tachyon particles, precisely agitated whenever she twirled those little dials, that came from nothing else but another human body.

Hermione had outlined a human theory to him, one created by the non-magicians, in that no energy or matter is ever truly gained or lost, that all things forever and always lay in perpetual, dynamic balance. Time was no different. Time given to Hermione to learn her lessons well had been taken from elsewhere, a particularly intriguing bit of magic that Loki hoped to spend a lifetime of his own learning. Here, time was taken from bodies that had been sentenced to that delectably cruel form of execution, the Kiss that created corpses that still breathed. Each one aged a few hours more whenever Hermione wanted to read another book, until one by one they withered away. Her kind had a whole prison full of them, creatures to be rendered corpses silently in their beds.

Loki thought the practice efficient, truth be told. These were the monsters of their society, the men who would otherwise make trouble during their inevitable escapes. It was better to triage off the resources they sapped into other services for society as a whole—even something as mundane as giving Hermione a bit of fun. Still, Hermione had an irrational aversion to anything close to a death sentence, particularly ever since some friend of a friend had found himself on the wrong side of it. Typical of her, drawing up into a bristling mass of righteous indignation over a relation so far removed from her interests, but her caution was commendable.

Loki didn't understand the full consequences of taking time in this manner—which troubled him, as any puzzle did. He did, however, have every intention of finding out... at least until the Death Eaters had apparently killed those who had made the Time Turners in this recent debacle. Perhaps it had been a targeted attack, to prevent them from being deployed as weapons in this little war of theirs, though the presumption of such a creative problem solving was a laughable one to Loki.

He frowned. What a pain, to reinvent an entire discipline. He didn't have particular need for a Time Turner right this instant, and Hermione was his enough that he felt guaranteed that she would use it as he would bid. His interests were also hers, after all, and she was _very_ interested in him. Still, it was... irritating. He would much prefer to do these things himself.

He would keep this Time Turner until she was ready to have it back. She would be in a mood for quite some time over this. She hated getting lectured, and losing was the hardest lesson for her to learn. He tucked the Time Turner into his robes, next to the little fires; two tokens he had from her now.

Loki should be grateful to that headmaster of hers, in a way. Having spent most of his energies on that black haired brat-of-a-boy, he could only be bothered to send what he considered a trinket Hermione's way. Loki would call him a meddling fool, had his actions any muddying effect on Hermione at all. For now, he was _just_ a fool, and a feeble one at that.

There were other places to be. Loki could sense the humans fiddling at the wards now. He shouldn't have spent so long mooning over the girl. Ah well. She'd think him loyal, and he was, after a fashion. One other stop, a curiosity...

He brought himself into an amphitheater-like room with an arch in the middle. Simple, dark, and more full of magic than any of the mortals who studied it could possibly know. The humans were clearing bodies, but no one noticed him. No one ever did, when he wanted to be left to his own desires.

The arch had familiar magic, familiar runes, similar enough to the ones in the library alcove that he used to sneak between worlds but different, different enough that it likely opened somewhere else entirely...

...and, reading a runic dialect that had not been written on Midgard for a thousand years, Loki thought he knew where it went.

He touched the arch, feeling beneath his hands the heavy gold beneath the tarnish, the cool misty veils encircling his hands with an almost delicate cold.

_Gjallarbrú_.

How convenient. He might not need a Time Turner to avoid Death after all.

**A/N**:

How was Loki's voice? His perspective will be making future appearances in this fic, and I want to make sure I get it down right. I'm trying to get at the full complexity of his character – he's not a strict psychopath any more than he is any one of anything else. He has kind bits, and cruel bits, and everything in between, and I'm trying to make him... multifaceted but still cohesive, manipulative but still having something _genuine_ to him. And, of course, he presents himself as being so... arrogant with regards to those around him that so much of his inner monologue reads as casual disdain, but I want to make sure I didn't overdo it (and that it didn't read too much like slapstick.) Did I manage that? If not – what should I have done differently?

Edited as of 12/5/2012.


	7. The Sixth Year

**The Sixth Year**

**June 30th, 1997**

"Again."

The shimmer of Loki's shields and the very floor of the Room of Requirement shuddering beneath their feet.

"Again."

A crackle of raw magic and a startled squeak of indignation as her own spell ricocheted back to lash at her face.

"Again."

Blinding lights and a _boom_ that left her ears ringing long past the time she—finally!—stepped over to the prone Asgardian with a broad grin on her face. "Loki, I broke through your shields! I haven't been able to do that bef—"

Her voice was choked off by the thin stiletto blade suddenly pressing itself against her throat, held delicately from behind. Loki's familiar body pressed itself against her back, all cold black silk and smooth lean muscle, a black cat that crossed her path too many times to count. "Nor have you yet," Loki said, his voice slipping into her ears like icy water, though it was threaded through with a smugness that squeezed at her pride like an eel. "Your strength was such that it inspired me to find another way to win." The simulacrum body on the ground winked at her, and then in turn winked right out of existence.

Loki released the knife from her throat and spun her around by the shoulder. Her chest was still heaving with magical exertion but she stared defiantly into his eyes as she pressed a knife of her own against his belly before he could even blink. "Better?"

Loki laughed and swatted her knife away, stepping back. "Turning a gift against the giver brings bad luck, or say it is said throughout the Realms."

"Superstition doesn't stop your father," Hermione shot back, thinking of the great Armory that Loki had told her about, where everything from the Infinity Gauntlet to the Casket of Ancient Winters was kept secret and safe. Loki had been teaching something of the politics of the Nine Realms recently, though Hermione suspected the 'lessons' were as much to vent the cares of a prince who thought himself surrounded by fools.

"Few things do."

"Run in the family?" Hermione asked, grinning as she gestured at her arms—covered in minor scrapes and scratches from their sparring.

His face twisted up in a scowl. "The comparison is not appreciated," he shot back sourly, waving his hands over himself; the dust and grime disappeared, as if she hadn't landed a single blow on his body. "I'd like to think I manage the family trade better than _Thor_. He lets nothing stop him, not even reason. Did I tell you of his last attempt at diplomacy? It ended with him half killing one of the contingent from Svartálfaheim when they refused to take commissions of more weaponry for Asgard—he thought it a demonstration of Asgardian might, forgetting that Mjölnir had been crafted by the dwarves themselves." He grimaced. "And now the court of Asgard wonders at why the dwarves would not share their secrets with us, while Father merely sits there scowling from his throne as if it would teach Thor some measure of sense."

He started pacing back and forth across their practice space. She took his drama with a grain of salt, knowing how hypersensitivity could easily beget hyperbole, but Loki's frustration with his home was so seething hot that she couldn't help but burn a bit at the injustice of it as well. Odin hoarded magical artifacts whose powers—many of them eye-wateringly cosmological in scope—but did nothing with most of them except using them as a threat to hang over the heads of all others. While Loki had hinted darkly that there were powers beyond the immediate Nine Realms, it still didn't make a whole lot of sense to Hermione to keep them locked away when Asgard could be utilizing their immense power to advance their civilization further, help would-be allies, something, _anything _ other than letting that kind of potential just collect dust on some pedestal. Minimally, if you wanted to impress upon potential enemies that you had power, wouldn't it be best to flaunt it through some great public works projects?

Hermione frowned. If _she _had the sort of power, she could certainly be putting it to much more sensible use.

Loki continued on, caught up on his own tirade. "Thor is always so—so _crude, _unrefined, the way he'll swing that ridiculous hammer of his around; he'd rather shatter a puzzle than solve it." And there was another thought: Odin had apparently seen wisdom in granting stewardship of Mjölnir to Thor, but to his other son—what? A vault full of the Nine Realms' most fantastic treasures and Odin didn't think to honor his other son—who had such excruciatingly obvious sibling rivalry issues—with any of them? Yet Loki never complained a word of that particular injustice. Some things cut too deep even for words, she supposed. Loki stopped his pacing and turned and smiled wolfishly her way. "Yet I must admit—as undignified as being covered in bruises can be, it's—satisfying in its own way, no? A fight that is won or lost by how much you can _bleed _as opposed to whose mind is the sharpest."

Hermione smiled in return, looking around them: the very stone of the Room of the Requirement was shattered, hairline fractures creeping well up into the walls from the force of their dueling. "I can't say I'll ever quite match Harry's predilection for breaking convenient bits of glass, but—I _will_ say that this is all quite... interesting." She traced one foot through some of the shards of stone around, idly forming the _ur _rune. Arbitrary symbology, maybe, but if Loki had taught her nothing else, it was that anything could gain power given belief—even the deepest falsehoods imaginable, or the stupidest scratching of ink on a page. "I'm learning, and that is always good."

Loki's own grin turned almost feral. "But your blows will barely do harm until you truly _want_ them to, my dear. That is the trick to petty violence which you so carefully evade with your admittedly lovely intellectualizing. You may knock me on my back but never have me ended until that is what you desire in your heart of hearts. Magic is guided by intention, and yours, I fear, is too good to survive long in this war of yours."

She laughed, though she could feel a bit of a frown creeping its way into her face. He had lectured her at length about the difference between Asgardian magic and the magic taught at Hogwarts, in that it was crafted by intent instead of what amounted to preprogrammed algorithms, much like what little she had learned of computer science during her bouts of frantically catching up on Muggle science and technology over the summers. Still, it could get—difficult, at times. The implications were intensely uncomfortable for her. "I can't imagine myself ever wishing you harm," she said, letting the smile fall from her face. No point it trying to fool Loki; she'd save it for Harry and the rest. "For someone to just—_disappear_, go away, yes. Binding their arms and shutting their mouth for them so I can get a few words in edgewise, that sort of thing. But not to see them hurt."

"Why not?" Loki cocked his head to the side, seeming genuinely curious.

"It's..." Hermione sighed. Saying something like, 'it's wrong' didn't really cut it with Loki, because it's lead to just enough _why_, and that was one she didn't really have an answer for other than what her instinct told her; her moral center wasn't really a rational thing. "It's inefficient," she said instead. "I'd much rather talk with them. Make them see my way. Then they'd help me later on."

Loki looked down at the _ur _she had drawn in the dust, and with a twitch of his hand expanded its prongs out into curling dendritic traceries, streamlets of pale gray that flowed across the floor. Hermione watched, entranced. "You'd think of an argument as an opportunity for investment," he mused, his fingers flickering out. She tried to visualize the flow of his magic, pale glowing tendrils that eased out of his aura. Oh, she was so _curious_ as to how it worked! Was there a 'will' particle, psyche or consciousness or some such, something like how her Muggle counterparts had uncovered gravitons? A thousand years on Asgard and maybe they could figure it out.

'Human' spellwork functioned essentially as ruts in the flow of magic, dug out with insistent repetition by Wizarding kind: words and wand motions became symbols so universally used that the language had over the generations become mistaken for the laws that govern the universe. One of the most valuable lessons Loki had given her was that there was nothing written in the stars, not even in those above Asgard, that dictated that one cluster of arbitrary syllables meant death and another a flight of canaries. With proper intent, beyond the limited rote way in which magic had been taught to her in the classrooms and into a higher theoretical understanding of how magic worked, the world—any world, really—could be quite literally hers.

Hers, and Loki's.

"What a lovely way to view the world," he continued on, musing out loud. "But what of those who will not see your way?" His hands made a lovely curving motion that rather reminded Hermione of a dance, and she nearly burst out in delighted laughter as stone flowers grew out of the shards on the ground, iron-gray petals blooming in the dust. But with a slashing motion of his hands the shard-petals simply broke apart again into little flurries of dust. "What of those who would rather wait for you to lose patience, who would rather wage more war than consider their own failings?"

Hermione frowned. "I don't think anyone is really _that _unreasonable, if you give them a chance—"

"A thousand years," Loki said flatly. He slammed his hands down in sharp motion, and the dust settled out instantaneously, the floor of the Room smoothed out to its pristine, pre-sparring state. "I have been trying to _reason _with my brother for a thousand years, and he still—" His jaw clenched, his hands curling to fists at his sides.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said. She fiddled with her hands; did she try to give him a hug? He was so finicky about physical contact, but sometimes little touches seemed to help where no words really could, when she dared to initiate that sort of thing with him.

"Sorry for what?" Loki's mouth twitched into an expression that seemed like it couldn't decide whether to be a scowl or a smile. "For being the first creature I have encountered in my lifetime who cannot stop asking questions, however uncomfortable?"

"For not being able to fix it for you," she blurted out, then blushed. She wanted to fix the whole _world, _really, but these days she found herself honestly wishing to start with him.

Loki stared at her for a moment, then—abruptly, harshly, like the shattering of glass—laughed. "Little lioness," he said, his eyes shining a wicked green, "do not be so sure that you do not."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione crossed her arms. Sometimes Loki had the nasty habit of spilling out ambiguous schemes for the future, but wouldn't whisper a word of what he had in mind. He'd always let up his secrets sooner or later, but some... some seemed to steer too far into the future for her to really have the patience to wait to find out.

"Anything you wish it to," Loki murmured, eyes steadily meeting hers. "Anything you _will _it to. Time, Hermione. That is all we need."

Possibilities. Magic, magic as Loki was teaching her—it was more than just intoxicating, but additionally... troubling. She didn't quite trust what she would will into—or out of—existence when there were no limits other than her own raw power. What if she grew so frustrated with trying to fix the world that she simply... wanted it all to go away? What if the easiest way to deal with the imperfections inherent in the throbbing mass of messy mortal life ended up being to just... just will it all away? She could see a long slippery slope from the sort of power that Loki loved to hint at, and it didn't leave her anywhere that she much liked the idea of being.

Nor did she entirely trust Loki. His magic felt _deeper _to her than what she tapped into with her Hogwarts teachers, connecting into something far more powerful than just her rationalistic mind but also something of her heart, her very soul. It was a beautiful, brilliant feeling, something so much purer than waving her wand about: he had conjured her flowers, once, in the depths of winter when she found herself pining after spring, each silky and fragrant bloom quite literally teased from the very threads of his mind as one might comb soft raw wool and that... that had been simply the most sublime thing that anyone had ever gifted her before.

"It's almost midnight," Hermione said softly, instead. "We're almost _out_ of time, for the moment."

"For the moment." And he looked up at her and _smiled _that devil-may-care smile, and she wondered if she was going to be spending another sleepless night learning Asgardian, coming up with clever new curses simply because they could, reading more books spirited away from the Restricted Section, or even just sitting there perfectly still together in the middle of the floor and _breathing _...

But it was like that, every lesson with him, every time she watched him pace the floors of the Room of Requirement and simply _play, _free from the constraints of tomes and textbooks. She was attracted to this new way of wielding magic, even while the concept of touching such a fundamental part of the workings of the universe also frightened her.

So instead she held his gaze and flipped her knife over in her hands, grinning. "I could probably do with some more practice," she said, lightly as she could. "Spar with me?"

Loki seemed to consider her suggestion, then shook his head. "No more tonight."

Hermione frowned a bit. Usually it was him egging at her engage in martial pursuits, though she suspected that was done as much to make himself feel better about how poorly he matched against his brothers as to actually help her get stronger. Still, it was particularly strange that he'd just... leave it at a no. "Why not?" She smiled a bit and flipped the knife over again in her hands. She had only just gotten familiar enough to do it, but now that she had a basic familiarity with the blade she found fidgeting with it oddly addictive, like how she'd chew at the tips of her quills or worry her bottom lip. "Did I tire you out earlier?

"Hardly," Loki said after a moment, long enough that he seemed at least a little distracted. Hermione's heart fluttered a bit. Oh, perhaps she _had_, and he was simply loathe to admit it.

So she conjured up a target on the opposite wall and tried to throw it with as little preparation as possible. While it didn't fly true—falling well far of the bullseye, and instead of embedding itself in the wall hitting it by the hilt and clattering to the ground—it was still much better than she had been able to manage a few months ago. She concentrated for a moment and willed the knife back into her hand, then turned to beam at Loki. "How am I supposed to learn if you won't let me?" she asked, pouting a bit.

Her knife—a birthday gift from Loki—went into a little sheath at her hip that only she could see. It was somehow bound to her, Loki having completed some sort of complicated blood-based charm to bind it to her touch and her touch alone, though even he had ended up shrugging when she tried to pry into the specifics of his explanation. Soul magic was strange and mysterious stuff and the ambiguity given by even experts such as Loki frustrated her to no end.

The knife had been offered to her as a grudging recognition that Hermione was, in fact, quite helpless when her wand was taken away. She didn't have the pride to refuse the gift, though she certainly had been suspicious of it at first. Loki had refused to tell her its properties, instead trying to make it into a game whereby she'd guess at them—though it was a poor game indeed, because none of the diagnostic spells she had run on it had told her much of anything other than the fact that it was quite powerful and otherwise opaque to most magic as humans knew it. Nor had she been able to find a rendering of it in any of the books of artifacts she could find in the Hogwarts library; likely the not-so-subtle implication was that she'd have to search in the libraries of Asgard to find out.

Later. Always later. Loki's smile definitely seemed tired this time around. "You have the patience to scratch your way through pages of pointless essay for classes in which you scarcely learn a whit," he said, "and yet not to allow your teacher a few moments to breathe?"

"I'm _mortal_," she reminded him, rolling her eyes a bit; usually he was the one with the cutting comments about how little she had left to live, a mere _century, _maybe two! She threw the knife again; this time, while it still flew wide, at least embedded in the wall with a satisfying shriek of metal on stone. "A breather for you is a half a lifetime for me." And she willed the knife back into her hand and smiled happily to herself when it obeyed. She had never quite gotten over how disobedient the broomstick had been during her first flying lesson, refusing to bend itself to her will and obey; she imagined that that class would have gone quite a bit differently for her now.

Loki claimed she had a talent for the sort of ad hoc thinking required for his style of magic, though she had a hard time believing him. Perhaps he had had centuries to perfect his art, but for her, on some level, moving beyond what was written in her books terrified her. It was one thing willing a broomstick into her hand, but how could she will _harm_upon someone? It was easier to have some words to say and not have to think much about how deeply she meant them; at least then she could excuse her actions as being mere impulse, like blasting Professor Snape into silence in the Shrieking Shack three years ago. Even if you were still faced with the consequences of your magic, at least then you didn't have to live knowing it came from something inherently _within _you. What would it make her, if she could lash out with her _soul_ and cut Loki as casually as they did in any of their daily duels?

What did it make him that he could, and frequently did?

"Then learn faster," Loki said idly. His fingers were tracing through the air again; though she watched, attention rapt, she couldn't figure out what it was that he was doing. A test, maybe. She squared her shoulders and focused all her attention to the motions he was making, trying to figure it out. "Learn faster and live longer. I spend so many of my days here with you already, but surely you recognize I cannot nurse you along for forever."

"Not for forever." Hermione fiddled with the knife absently. "I do appreciate all the teaching you've been doing for me, I really do. I... I can't imagine what I'd be like without you." She flushed a bit. "Without your teaching. Without your guidance. Without... well." She held the knife up; her arms had subtly defined musculature, her fingers long and lean from more than just scratching away at a parchment. She felt... perhaps not _strong, _but at least not all that weak anymore. "Without any of this. I don't think I'd like to be that person much. Trapped in classes whose coursework can't challenge me, with friends I can't really communicate with on any meaningful level..." She threw the knife again at the target; this time it hit closer to the center, though it bounced off the wall again. Better. Getting better. "How would I ever be able to help anyone like that? At least with you I have a sense of how far I could possibly push myself, how very many things there are for me to explore." She willed the knife into her hand and her fingers tightened around its grip, cool and heavy and smooth, like it belonged there. It was something made to cause _end _things, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Not for now. Not when she was just flinging it at walls. "So thank you. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. Just..."

"...eager," Loki finished. He turned towards her and suddenly stepped into her space. She found her breath catching a bit. There was something about being stretched taut and left exhausted at the end of every day, burned like a worn down wick approaching some bitter dawn, something she craved and didn't understand. Why? Why did she keep at this? What she told Loki wasn't the whole of it: she _lived_ for the moments he came to the Room of Requirement: the DA meetings, her classes, meals with friends and Quidditch matches and sitting around playing chess in the Common Room with her housemates, all of it just seemed like a sad echo of the fierceness with which she could learn with Loki, even as every smile mocked her with almost compassionate cruelty. "I understand. Believe me." He was leaning in a bit, eyes lazily tracing her every feature. Under the magnifying glass, again, being _judged _but there was that exhilarating thrill when she knew that she was being considered worthy. "I'd have killed for someone to guide me as I have guided you," he murmured. "Sacrificed to whatever god demanded tribute, given anything. Anything. _Anything_."

She swallowed a bit at his nearness. Oh, she had thought plenty of times about leaning in, something out of one of Lavender's trashy romance novels, and given him a kiss. Even Viktor... had not really compared. No one really could. "I'll consider myself blessed," she said, lightly as she could. She had a hard time maintaining eye contact; she kept catching her gaze sliding down to his lips, pressed as they were into a stern line. "It... takes a lot, to actually follow through and treat others better than you yourself have been treated. It's incredibly brave of you."

"Brave." He laughed, bitter, rocking back on his heels. "If only Thor were to hear you now. He calls me a coward for using sorcery to save his life."

"Well, " Hermione replied, her tone as a-matter-of-fact as she could manage, "he's wrong. If he's going to so obviously be an idiot, then why bother with him?"

"Because everyone else does." Laughing again. "Because even _Father_ somehow thinks him worthy, worthier than _I _am, and I..." His fists were clenched and shaking at his sides but he was standing still, quivering. Even though he was so much taller than Hermione, he somehow seemed... frail to her, in that moment. He looked at her and her eyes were full of old, raw pain. "I cannot fathom why."

_Oh Loki_. She reached forward, to touch his arm, to somehow bridge that awful gap between him and seemingly everything else; her fingers brushed the cool wool of his robes, the scratchy texture faintly electric to the sensitive skin at her fingertips. "Maybe your father is fallible too," she said, quiet as she could. "I thought Dumbledore was... perfect, for a long time. A great leader with some sort of saintly wisdom. But I was wrong." She pressed a little bit more with her fingers, brushing up and down his arm tentatively in strokes she hoped were comforting. It was so hard to tell with him; half the time he felt like some sort of wild animal, ready to bolt. As is his chest was heaving, his breaths shallow and his eyes wide and not entirely focused on her. "You showed me that—that the people who raise us, who we look up to, who everyone around us tells us is great and grand, may not be quite the case. Maybe that's true of Odin, too."

For a long aching moment he seemed to actually consider what she said—but then his head bowed down and he pulled his arm away from her touch. "You know nothing of Asgard," he said, his voice hard and harsh. "You know nothing of the Allfather, of Thor, of—" He stopped himself.

"You're right," Hermione said evenly, crossing her arms and trying not to feel so disappointed that Loki had drawn away. "I don't know anything. I'm just some _mortal_ that you waste your time with. But some of us don't have an eternity to spend wallowing in our own misery. This time _isn't _a waste to me. I've got two hundred years, maximum, and I'm choosing to spend some of that stupid mortal lifespan trying to understand and maybe even help you a bit." She glared at him. "So stop throwing my own inadequacy back in my face. It's not helpful. If I don't know anything, then just tellme, _teach_ me."

Loki looked back up at her. The expression in his eyes was... different, now, cooler, darker. She felt a shiver work its way up her spine. "The things I could teach you," he murmured, and reached out towards her, across that impossible void between them and taking her by the arm, fingers creeping their way up to her shoulder, to where the hem of her shirt stopped and the sensitive skin of her neck started.

Perversely, she also found it difficult to completely trust in a god who was so invested in the upbringing of a girl. She could certainly detect the sincerity of his interest in her well being, his loneliness, his craving for connection and the desire for something _intimate _that he could not find in Asgard. Knowing that Loki hungered for a friend was like knowing that the sea was deeper than she could dive; there were yet uncharted depths to his soul, unfathomable reaches that she queerly ached to learn.

This was her magic, as Loki had mockingly told her two years ago. It made her special, perhaps, but she didn't know whether it would make her happy.

His eyes, shifting grays and greens, were boring into hers. She had stopped caring about him coming into her mind long ago: both the best and worst aspect of their strange relationship was that she knew _he_ knew about all these fears of hers and that he somehow persisted in being acutely himself despite, or perhaps because, he knew how it affected her psyche. She had a hard time finding any pressing intent to hide herself from him, really: her tentative attempts at counterattacking with Leglimency of her own had only told her that he felt very _intensely_ about her, though the finer points were lost in how dizzying strong everything that he felt was. Lies made her stomach turn, but even withholding her thoughts and feelings made her feel queasy. She'd forgive him for _his_ little lies at least, because she knew he felt like he had to do it, and he knew she knew that, she'd find out eventually, and it wouldn't matter one whit.

"Teach me," she whispered, heart pounding as he stepped in closer, closer, _closer_, arms abruptly wrapping around her too tight for her to even breathe and—

—she felt the numbness of a complete set of invisibility cantrips fall over them both. It might have been almost romantic if not for the tension of his body pressed against hers like the edge of a sword.

"Loki, what's going on?" she asked, confused and surprised by the very sudden shift, only to have a cold hand clapped over her mouth. It was then she knew something was actually wrong: he would never shut her up otherwise, he had always rather perversely loved to hear her upset...

The Room around them shimmered, from the blank stone surfaces they preferred for their stolen practice sessions into huge high heaps of—_things_, strange, strange things. Some could very well be ancient artifacts but others looked just as likely to be junk, broken chairs mixed in with ball gowns and baubles.

The Room shouldn't be able to change when someone was in it: that had been one of the first things that DA had tested when trying to make the place secure from Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad. Hermione's mind whirled with possibilities. Had someone cast a Confundus charm on the Room so that they could get in, but students wouldn't know how to do something like that...

Her eyes widened as the door at the entrance began to creep open and a pale, nervous-looking head poked through. She had never seen Draco anything other than with a cold look and a straight back and a hard mouth, but here he seemed to almost be shaking with anxiety, from his carefully styled hair right down to his shiny tailored shoes. The door closed behind him as he began a transit across the room, picking its way through the clutter. She had to bite down hard on her bottom lip to keep from crying out in confusion as Draco passed them by, invisible as they were. She may have developed something an affinity for, as Loki so loved to put it, _lost little boys, _and had even cast sympathetic looks Draco's way before, but she had never thought to see him so...

...so _frightened _as he seemed to physically forcing himself to appear collected and calm. She could see the faint beading of nervous sweat on his brow, glittering under the queer half-light of the chamber like fine diamonds crushed mercilessly into dust, and his pale eyes were full of fear, similar for a fleeting moment to the look that sometimes passed in Loki's own eyes, a child so desperate to please.

She could see the quaver in his hands as he stopped, right in front of one of the many heaps not far from where Loki and Hermione stood, by a large black cabinet. He breathed in deeply for a few moments. He looked so brave and Hermione was afraid as he leaned forward to open the door, his form faintly swaying, his face crinkled with lines of worry so fine they could have been cast from spider silk.

The door to the wardrobe opened and Loki squeezed her tightly. It was the most physical contact she had had with him since the Yule Ball and it seemed to sear her. "Don't," he whispered, his voice hard and hot in her ear, his hand still over her mouth. "I know what he's thinking, what _you're _thinking, and I beg of you don't."

She looked on, her stomach curdling in horror as faces she had tried so hard to leave behind in her nightmares emerged from the cabinet out of the past. Bellatrix, Yaxley, Greyback... Hermione felt strung, taut, like a bow that had no arrow to let fly, no purpose but tension and fear. She brought one of her hands up to her face and tugged his to the side, breathing in raggedly as she did so. "Are they here to kill me?"

"No." Loki seemed so close, pressed against her like this. She could feel that wool and silk warm her just like it had that first year but now she felt almost suffocated by it, the wool now itchy, the silk now clinging. She remembered how it had once felt and closed her eyes and tried to hold that comfort in her mind. "Not you. A dying man who'd be shortly dead anyway."

The pieces clicked into place quickly: she had always been a bit too fast for proper peace of mind, so sharp she'd cut herself in her rush to figure it all. "No," she whispered, "no, _no_..."

"It is that or swaddled in blankets in his bedchamber finally dead from dementia," he whispered back, his voice harsh. "Or have you not noticed? Your Headmaster's behavior has been increasingly erratic over this last year. He is not the leader your side needs, but perhaps he is at least the proper martyr to press your cause. He always did have a fixation on martyrs; such a death would suit him well."

She knew he would never let her go to stop them, and suddenly knew what that meant. The hold that one may have over another. That profound _powerlessness_, to be held in perpetual thrall not to inability but to your own desire to follow another come what may. She'd follow Loki to the grave, through the very Veil if he asked it... and the thought of herself doing so, though for a moment it felt fleetingly true, at the same time disgusted her.

Being forcibly restrained has a way of changing one's priorities somewhat.

She knew that perhaps Loki made a certain amount of sense, and that he was probably saving her life. Still, she found herself hating him him for it with a passion that curled around her throat and almost seemed to choke her. He would not fight her wars for her, and maybe he'd even keep her from fighting them herself, but that wasn't the point. He wanted to change who she was and she couldn't have that: it wasn't that he wanted her to be _better_, but rather that he wanted her to be _different._

Loki must have felt her stiffen because he squeezed her even tighter. "Oh Hermione. They would have you dead before I even had a chance to raise a shield for you. The only way to deal with those who deal with Death is to deal them death in return, and you are unready for this... You see that, no?"

Hermione watched as Bellatrix stepped forward from the cabinet, every inch a creature of ragged lace and hungry eyes, watched as she crooned out her approval as her hand suddenly snaked behind Draco's head and yanked it back viciously. More horrifyingly, he took it, allowed it to happen, not even resisting the sharp jerk that bared his throat to her long knife nor flinched as the blade edged its way across his skin. "Love, this is so easy I have to _suspect_ you... Surely you do not value my sister's life so cheaply."

"Never," Draco rasped. His hands clenched at his side, long pale fingers helpless. Hermione's heart sang for him. "Snape will meet us at the Astronomy Tower. It will be done there."

"There's a good boy," Bellatrix cooed. The other Death Eaters leered. "I'm sure he was the one to plot this out; will he be doing the deed for you as well?"

"I'll kill him myself," Draco said coldly, lifting his hand and pushing the knife away from his throat. "Just like like I figured this out and fixed the cabinet myself." Did he cut himself with that gesture? He didn't seem to care either way. Hermione watched as something _hardened_ in him, a subtle sort of crystallization that seemed familiar—in Harry's emerald eyes at the death of Sirius, in Lupin as he set eyes upon a transformed Pettigrew, in Loki when he swore to protect her in the Hospital Wing last year having been hurt by some of these very same people before her now. "I'll kill him myself. Just as I promised our Lord."

_Cold_. Hermione was afraid for herself. She didn't want to be cold but she could feel herself tensing against Loki even now, burning coal into cool sharp diamonds.

Bellatrix smiled at her nephew. Madness glittered in her eyes, and Hermione in that moment profoundly understood that there was little difference between any of them there, standing in the Room of Requirement. Bellatrix was only someone a touch more frayed than Loki, drawn to just before the point of breaking; where was Loki, in comparison? She dreaded to know. And Draco, not so unlike Hermione either, with his own mother threatened by such people, his own family? What might Hermione have been driven to, in his place? People were creatures of their own circumstances and she wanted nothing more to collapse and cry for it all. She wanted to stop them but the only spells that were coming to her lips were for binding, for tripping, for making them fall to the ground so that maybe they wouldn't try to fight any more... and even so she felt paralyzed, unable to move even if Loki wasn't still holding her tight.

Unready indeed.

"We need to hurry," Draco continued, his voice low even as he gestured towards the door. "The prefects will only be distracted so long."

Loki held her until the door closed behind the invaders but he could not let go soon enough. The others gone, Hermione sprung out of his gasp and whirled about to face him, babbling helplessly like a fresh sprung spring. "I _have _to stop them, can't you see? I know you think it for the best but it's still someone _dying_ and I can't do that, I really can't, oh Loki..."

But Loki did not meet her eyes; he looked away and paced instead. His face was a mess of a grimace, and he seemed to be withdrawing, collecting himself so he could say some very reasonable words in a very reasonable tone of voice while the invaders ran off to kill her Headmaster.

"Well." She gripped her wand in one hand and her knife in the other. Time to be practical. "If you're not going to say anything I'm just going to go."

—only to find herself frozen, head to toe and barely even able to breathe or to blink, let alone walk away head held high to save the world.

"No," Loki whispered, "no, not this time. I can't _let _you. Hermione, you don't understand..." Loki stepped back, making more hand gestures. Hermione could have been paralyzed just by the look on his face, so full of pain she couldn't even move to look away from, everything in him seeming to simply be _breaking_. "I understand you better than you know, I expect you to hate me for this and I find that—_unbearable_." The last word came out choked. It was the closest to a loss of composure as she had ever seen in him. Were those tears in his eyes? His face was twisting, contorting; he no longer looked handsome or beautiful, only desperately afraid and deeply alone.

Loki turned and whirled around and walked away. Hermione was unable to move, unable to speak, only breathe small, shallow catches of dusty air that could not clear her dizzy mind nor still her thudding heart as her soul seemed to spiral out of control.

The door shut and she was alone.


	8. The Seventh Year

**The Seventh Year**

**May 2nd, 1998**

Loki would find her eventually, she knew. It was that thought that had taunted her this whole last year, not a promise, not a threat, but rather a simple statement of fact. The two of them were tied together, some thread she couldn't find but still it tugged at her no matter what way she tried to turn, no matter how she had tried to cut at it.

After the Battle—_the last battle she'd ever have to fight in, _she had been telling herself ever since they had first planned to make their stand there—Hermione found herself walking the familiar path to the library. The library—and the area immediately around it—was eerily untouched, unlike the rest of the castle where what wasn't in ruins was filled in with rubble, bodies and blood. While she might have liked to believe that perhaps both sides had respected the sanctity of the library from their time at Hogwarts, she doubted this was the case. There was nothing sacred in how either side had fought. War could never be a holy thing.

Rather, a close examination of the entryway revealed Asgardian runes as unmistakable as a signature, etched into the very wood of the door. In effect, they were similar to the modified Notice Me Not charms that she had so favored this last year, here a subtle repelling effect that would discourage escapees from the battle from taking shelter in the library. How many had come this way thinking they could hide between the shelves only to be irrevocably, inexplicably pushed further on and were consequently caught in the crossfire they had sought to avoid?

She couldn't help but notice that she had been exempt from the spell's scope; had Loki looked to trap her there, to keep her from fighting? She laughed bitterly, the sound loud and harsh in the queer silence of the castle after the battle. Did he still wish her out of her war, did he want her locked up for display like some doll too precious to even take out to play?

She didn't want to think of that right now. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then pushed the door open, heart hammering as they gave way with a familiar creak of protest. All she wanted now was... was rest, quiet, she wanted books and dust and musty air and long lonely aisles that she had first walked on her second day of Hogwarts when she could scarcely even reach the fourth shelf up. She began to walk, her fingers tracing the edges of the shelves, long lines drawn through the dust as her feet automatically took her along her accustomed path.

Old habits die hard.

Hermione felt his presence before she saw him, a familiar burn in her magical senses that made her ache, a just-remembered bruise. Still, there was only an irresistible inertia pulling her ever onwards; she didn't even know what she was going to say, only that she was going to say _something_. A year had done nothing to settle her thoughts with regards to either him or his frustratingly opaque actions: whenever any little reminder of him emerged it always felt like a scab had been ripped away from countless wounds she didn't even know she had. But, she was nothing if not pragmatic: perhaps, nothing had healed, but all that rage and _hurt _had at least ceased bleeding for a time once she made up her mind to put pressure upon her feelings to **stop**. After all, suddenly she had been tasked with saving the world, and her frustrations over some Norse god weren't going to help fix it for her. If anything, being lost to a fit of angst would just make her fatalistic to the point of nonfunctionality.

But... here he was now, waiting for her. He had come down from on high to make sure his favorite _chair _hadn't gotten damaged in the conflict, even if he couldn't be bothered with human lives. She tensed, resentful. How had he known she would come to the library, now that it was all over? Did he know her _that _well (in which case, still, why had he tried to stop her from saving Dumbledore in the first place?) or had he cast some sort of compulsion charm on her? Or had he just... continued coming to the library this whole year, not giving a flying fiddle who had control over the library just as long as the books weren't burned?

She stopped walking and leaned her head against a shelf, trying to calm herself. The cover of Eight Uses for Alligator Eyes (And Other Advances in American Alchemy) stared at her, accusatory. Loki, for his part, at least _appeared _to have left her alone this whole last year while she ran around with Harry and Ron trying to destroy Horcruxes, but she increasingly doubted he actually had. She was passable enough at spells of secrecy now, skilled such that only breaking the Taboo on Voldemort's name could slice through her careful shielding, but she wouldn't fool herself in thinking that she had surpassed her own mentor. Thrown him off her track for a few moments, perhaps, if he deigned follow her footsteps, but nothing more.

After all—no matter how far or fast she tried to run from him, he'd always have her scent, an irrevocable tie to her magical core in the form of little flames that danced in a vial. He had been right enough to caution her against that type of enchantment altogether; had he known, then, during that most beautiful night of the Yule Ball, that one day she might live to regret giving such a gift? Was that why he had said such lovely things to her, to help her infatuated fourteen-year-old heart forget what exactly it was that she was giving away?

And—to what end had she done such a thing anyway? She breathed in deeply the scent of the books, her forehead aching from leaning against the shelf for so long. This whole year, how often had those flames blazed a bright bloody red, during her encounters with Snatchers, with Bellatrix, in breaking into Gringotts, in the Battle itself? Had he worried about her? Or had he set the vial aside, ignoring it altogether while he attended to business that he clearly valued more than her own _life_?

She swallowed, fingers curling around the edge of the bookshelf, trying to stem a panic attack swelling in her chest. Or—_had _he been watching her this entire time, like some pet putting on a performance for his precious entertainment? The thought needled at her and threaded her through with dull horror. There was so much to question that she simply hadn't had time for, not between trying to survive and trying to slay Voldemort. What of those long days when she held the horcrux in Salazar's locket and she could hear his voice whispering from it like a charm? Or, what of those long nights when she could sometimes see his silhouette in the shadows outside their tent, smiling so grim he could have been out of a grave? What about those captured Death Eaters she had performed Legilimancy on and thought she could see his face in their heads, smiling out of their memories but never saying a word? Had she been hallucinating under the pain of Bellatrix's Cruciatus Curse as Loki's voice cut through the air to tell her to get up, _get up _you mewling _quim!, _or had she truly internalized him as some sickly sardonic voice of reason when she couldn't reason for herself?

Had she missed Loki so much that she had imagined his presence, or did he miss her so much he had come unbidden to her side? Or perhaps some twisted combination, it'd suit him somewhat, to send simulacrums to test and torment her, to gauge her reaction before he'd reveal himself to her. She didn't know. She _couldn't_ know. She could ask and she wouldn't be able to believe a word he said. She felt soured and sick.

Oh, cowards both of them. Hermione had been a proper lioness in war, a tribute to her House and her friends and her family and her whole damn cause, but when it came to Loki she never felt like anything other than that eleven year old girl who had cried into his shirt.

She pulled back from the bookshelf, flapping her fingertips to get the dust off of them, and started walking again with a huff. She was being _small_ again, and she couldn't stand it one whit. She had felt completely different around Harry and Ron who—once the War had started in earnest and they had been reduced to _camping_—had begun to take her a little less for granted and instead treated her like some sort of half-goddess capable of figuring it all out somehow_. _

And—she had.Truth be told, getting away from Loki had certainly done her wonders, even if so much of the relative success of the war had been predicated on what he had taught her. It... had certainly been lonely at first, no longer having Loki to laugh with about some new bit of lore; Harry and Ron certainly didn't share her love of learning, except when it happened to keep them from getting killed. They were simple people, with simple motivations and simple desires—but beneath it all they were deeply good in a way she could never tell if Loki was or wasn't. She had forgotten that, these last few years, how good it felt to have friends who did not wear at you like a sandstorm that never stopped.

When Ron had first kissed her it was with perfectly clear intent and she had kissed him back because she liked that he had been nice to her. So exquisitely simple. It had seemed the happiest thing she had done in her whole life: someone cared about her and cared enough to let her see that care and didn't care to do anything else at all for a moment. There was just... that one blindingly pure moment with just the two of them in the whole wide universe, just the two of them and a happiness that pierced her to the core.

It wasn't complicated. That was the _point_. Even if nothing came of her and Ron, at least there had been some semblance of a genuine connection and that was a much more meaningful gift than some arcane knife or archaic promises about being kidnapped to some far away fairtytale kingdom.

It was all she wanted, really. Not the kiss but that _feeling_ behind it, of there being nothing else in existence other than that simply sublime connection. Viktor, swirling her about on the dance floor like a princess because that was what he wanted and what she wanted and that _both_ of them wanted it being enough for the two of them for a time; Harry hugging her fiercely because of affection and nothing else, no tricks, no secrecy, no reservations; hell, even _Draco Malfoy _staring desperately into her eyes after she had disarmed him, so full of doubt and guilt as he didn't dare ask for forgiveness; Ron, Ginny, Luna, all these people who felt so _true_ to her it almost burned. Even if they weren't all that good at least they were good _intentioned._

But Loki, such an awful tangle of insecurities? She could comfort him, care for him, perhaps even love him and untangle his knots with careful fingers, but it wasn't the same. He took the best of her and gave her nothing in return.

Not even the truth.

_Especially _not the truth.

When she reached their alcove he was there, reading a book as if he had never left, as if he had never been anywhere else since well before she had even been born. Oh, she felt small indeed. "Hello," he said, looking up from his reading.

Her breath caught, despite herself. His face was still, like a pool. Recognition, or something like it, flickered from his eyes outwards like ripples, his lips twitching into something like a smile or a frown, she couldn't tell. His eyes were pale, opaque like an opal. He looked tired. Weren't gods supposed to always seem youthful?

_But they aren't actually gods, _she reminded herself, drawing her spine straight in an effort to feel more confident. _Only mistaken for them by hammer-fetishizing barbarians_.

"You look terrible," Loki continued as she stayed silent, shutting the book.

She couldn't help but laugh at this. Her eyes felt hot, nervous tears that she blinked back as soon as she felt them start. "I got my hands a bit dirty, yes," she replied as lightly as she could, gesturing somewhat needlessly at her bloodstained, muddy, torn and otherwise battleworn clothing.

"One of many ways to learn." He paused. "Keeping your friends out of trouble?"

"To the contrary: thoroughly _in_ trouble, and keeping them alive at that."

He was smiling, but it didn't make it to his eyes. "Mostly."

"Mostly," she agreed, tensing at the memories, "but better than none."

He looked away from her now, now fingering the armrest of his chair. She wondered if she'd fit better in it now, having finally grown into her frame. She wouldn't feel so lost in it anymore, at least, like she had those seven years ago when she had first tried to sit in it... "No guilt, then? You're not wishing you could have done a better job, saved a few more of your little friends, ended it all a bit sooner?"

She lifted her chin high. "None," she said confidently. "I did my best."

Those long fingers of his; she watched them, fascinated at how they picked at the perfect gleaming surface of the perfect leather of his perfect chair. She remembered how those fingers felt, cradling her face, cool and smooth and strong; part of her longed to run into his arms and hug him so tightly he'd never go away again and part of her wanted to run away for forever lest he try to hold her. Oh, but maybe this was happiness, balanced so sweetly on the edge like this... "I'd expect nothing less of you," he murmured.

"It had nothing to do with your expectations," she shot back, half out of habit.

"No," he replied evenly, "it had to do with your own. That's the beauty of it, really." His eyes snapped back up to hers. Colors swirled, greens and blues in cold fog. "You are not my equal, but you act as one. You _roar_ little lioness; why are you so surprised when others hear?"

"You didn't listen!" Hermione felt herself fill with a sudden heat as all the anger came rushing back in a flood that left her dizzy with its intensity. "You wouldn't let me fight! I could have saved Dumbledore, you know, I hexed Bellatrix halfway to hell after she cut on me not even six months ago and I even cut on her a bit myself, I _killed _her, and Dolohov and Yaxley and more than I even know the names of, anyone who tried to hurt me _I stopped them from hurting anyone else_. Doesn't that mean anything to you?" _It means something to everything else_, her heart screamed, thinking of how very proud everyone was of her, but she didn't bother to say this too; it was excruciatingly obvious that he couldn't care less for her compatriots.

"It means the world to me," he replied, his voice steady. Why did he look so sad? "It means every world in the Nine Realms that you've grown into yourself."

"Without you!" Her voice came out as a choked scream. "I had to do it without _you!_ Do you think I wanted that? I wanted to grow up _with_ you, I didn't want to spend a year in a tent hunting down artifacts you could have found in an instant! I wanted to _learn_ but I couldn't do it with you, you wouldn't let me, I couldn't, why did you try to stop me, why did you—" She forced herself to stop and took a deep breath, bringing a clenched fist to her face to wipe away the tears.

She hadn't cried since Bellatrix had cast Cruciatus on her over and over and over again, crawling on top of her to carve a scar into her arm. Then, just like now, Loki was burning his way into her soul: she had thought, then, that she could hear him screaming at her to get up, his voice cracked almost beyond all recognition. It had cut through the pain, somehow, and she _did_ get up—after plunging the knife Loki had given her years ago deep into Bellatrix's belly as the woman hovered above her and feeling the hot blood bathe her as both they lay there on the floor, both of them dying in a way. She hadn't been able to move Bellatrix from on top of her until the woman was dead and the confidence had finally bled from her mad bright eyes.

Hermione took a shuddering breath. It all felt like a terrible nightmare that she was waking up into again, a lucid dream with no escape, some sick mise en abyme. What would she have done if she had never known Loki—lain there and taken it with a whimper? She didn't know what she hated more: that other, more helpless Hermione, or this creature she had turned into. Was gutting a woman worth winning a war? Yes, _yes_ it was, her mind whispered.

And—she couldn't help but wonder—was this was how it had started for Bellatrix? A handsome dark haired man with the tongue of a snake, telling the would-be Death Eater to take her first kill because it was the right thing to do for him, for them, for _her_? Had he, too, disappeared just as she was done, not even there to hold her while her whole world fell in around her?

Loki didn't move throughout all this, let alone get up to hug or to hold her; she felt a sick sort of relief. She was not a little girl any more in his eyes. It was almost reassuring, that he waited for her to find some semblance of calm on her own instead of comforting her. She felt like a fool but refused to let it show. _Good little lioness_, she could almost hear him thinking, and her gut clenched in anger at that too. The gall of that god. She was her own creature. "You needed to be without me for a time," he said eventually, when her hiccuping sniffles had ceased. "You _needed_ to feel the need to prove yourself, or you wouldn't have done a damn thing other than sit in this chair wallowing in what to do. Surely you see that."

"Don't you dare say you let Dumbledore die for my sake!" She closed her eyes as she felt the anger rise again, magma that wanted nothing other than to burn, _burn_ it all, until there was nothing but a clean black slate with no tangled thorns to tear at her ever again. Whispering, after a moment, "Just... don't."

"Curious," he replied, with a hint of coldness. "I am rarely _asked_ to lie."

She took several minutes this time, trying to find the queer serenity she had had when she first walked into the library so many long eternities ago. "There were other reasons," she said eventually, quietly and calmly as she could manage. "There are always other reasons. Tell me."

His brow raised. "Not really," he said, "other than variations on the first that I gave you. You seemed so very set on the concept of growing up that I thought I'd give you the chance to do so. You were spending every spare moment you could at my side instead of with those friends of yours and the... _insightful_ adventures they seem to have; you kept talking about this war but didn't seem at all inclined to fight in it. So, I gave you exactly what you didn't even know you wanted: a push out the door. Or rather, I went out the door and left you to clean up your own mess." A smile twitched on his face. It didn't warm her like it usually did. He leaned forward. "I'll admit that it was rather upsetting to lie to you, but it wasn't _truly_ a lie; you were the one who read the lie into my words, not I. The lie we believe the most deeply is the truth itself, after all. I didn't want to see you hurt, this is of course _true_, but if you never learned to fight for yourself, you'd never have become anything and right now I'd be bored senseless at the court of Asgard as your corpse accumulated worms."

She looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. She hated crying. Hated it. "You were testing me."

"In a way." She looked back down and he was smiling that small little smile. "You always did like tests. Proving your worth before the jury, but here we finally had the trial by fire instead of with parchment or padded walls. You needed to prove yourself to others in order to prove yourself to _yourself_. Would you ever know yourself otherwise?"

Hermione could not speak until the choking knot of grief had loosened itself in her throat and her voice could come out clear. "It's sick."

Loki spread his hands. "It's you."

"There didn't need to be a war. You could have stepped in, stopped it all. You could have found the Horcruxes and destroyed them all in a day, probably."

Loki shrugged. "And you would never have had developed the spine to do such a thing yourself. Your friends followed you like lost children while you went forth to slay the monster they slept afraid of at night. Did you want to be one of those children as well, forever following me about? Yes, I could _save your world_, but where would be the satisfaction in that for you? You'd always be clever but never strong. Neither of us can abide weakness. How would it feel, to hate yourself for forever?"

"But how can I not hate you now?" she blurted out. She felt a sick satisfaction in seeing Loki stiffen. "There was so much _death_ and it could have all been stopped if you had just—just gotten off that high horse of yours! Aren't you gods supposed to be taking care of us petty mortals or something? I don't care if I hated myself for forever, at least then maybe then more people would be alive—" She cut herself off, closing her eyes. Anger. Let it go.

"'No guilt'?" Loki spun her own quote back at her. "I'm playing a longer game than you, Hermione; you cannot even come close to fathoming what _forever _truly means. Surely you see that."

"Just because I understand it doesn't mean I like it." She paused. The whole of her seemed to take a deep breath, her heart, her soul, her mind that even ceased to spin for a precious moment. "Now what?"

"That," he replied quietly, "is entirely up to you."

Here was the crux of it, really. Was she done growing up? Loki didn't scare her so much anymore, so at least she had something on the Norse, though that wasn't saying a whole lot. At least... now she could look herself in the eye now, even if she didn't like all of what she saw there, at least she could see who she _was _and _could become._ Was that enough? It seemed to be for Loki—but it could always be another test.

_Hah_. She stared into those mocking green eyes. The tests would never stop, because she could never stop believing she was being tested. It was silly, really, seeing it all laid out like that, but that was it. She'd never be satisfied, nor he, either of them with the other or with themselves. They were impossible together.

Hermione could also feel acutely the needs of those around her. Some—her human friends—were saying she had won the war for them. The Horcrux hunt had been tedious, but they had all escaped unscathed: flawless thefts from some of the most tightly controlled places under Lord Voldemort's brief reign, Gringotts not least of them. Though sneaking right into Umbridge's bedroom as she snored away beneath her pink duvet like a great sow swaddled up for the slaughter had certainly been a highlight as well. (_Had Loki seen, had Loki laughed? _She didn't dare ask, not trusting whatever answer she might get.)

Harry and Ron seemed to take her sudden excellence in stealth and secrecy all in stride; she didn't think she could surprise either of them at this point. Ron thought her some sort of avenging angel, perfection personified, which seemed to be a good chunk of his attraction to her. _Something perfect_.

But... she wasn't, even if she was the only mortal who could really see that anymore. When she had called up the old Order and told them about the battle that needed to be fought to draw Voldemort out of hiding so they could have at Nagini and the Lord himself, McGonagall and Lupin and Tonks and all the rest of them looking at her as if... as if she was some sort of unfamiliar goddess come down to save them all. She had a _plan_, after all.

Really, the only messy part of any of it was this last battle, _the _Battle. She hated to see Hogwarts in such disrepair. But... it was necessary. Sometimes the ends justified the means. Victory tasted like ash as all her self righteous fire burned out, leaving only the cold bodies of the people she couldn't save.

The problem shifted in her mind. Would going to Asgard to fix Loki's problems make her feel better about her own issues? She didn't think so. There was still a whole world to save, _hers_. How could she rest? How could she run away?

She swallowed and tried to think of how to tell him this sad little conclusion of hers, though by the look in his eyes, the way he had watched her approach from the very beginning of this whole argument, she thought he knew what she was going to come to all along. "I need to rebuild the castle," she began softly. "Since it's my fault, really, that it's all broken up in the first place. I brought the Death Eaters here, you know, it was the only place we could have confidently confronted them... And the funerals. Lots of them. I wasn't quite clever enough for some people. Trials, I'll be needed as a witness for quite a few." She stopped herself; she was babbling, her sentence half-formed thoughts, weak excuses even to her. "I know you've been waiting for me to come to my senses for quite some time. I think you'll have to wait a bit longer. I'm still rather attached to these mortals, see." She attempted to crack a grin and forced her eyes to remain on his, though he didn't seem to be looking at her so much as past her into something well beyond her face. She tried not to care. "They're my friends. You joke about it, but it's true. I need to help them. I _need_ to. That's what I am." Her smile was sad, and she threw his own words back at him: "Surely you'd expect nothing less?"

Loki's face was so still, a lake frozen so suddenly there was still a strange little quirk of a smile tugged to one side. He looked so cold. She remembered how warm his skin had been, that one beautiful night at the Yuletide ball, the heat of his breath, eyes that burned into hers with the potential of centuries. "You will not come with me to Asgard," he stated factually, as if commenting on another of his books.

Her face broke but she did her best to hold it together. "What would you have me do there?" she asked, her voice a hot whisper. "Parade me around as a trophy, something you can show off to your father as a symbol of your ability to _feel_? Sit around reading books all day, maybe every so often go do some good deed that will make lesser beings feel grateful? That's not a life, and I need to _live_ for a while."

"That's not what I meant." His eyes closed and for the first time he seemed to be in pain during the exchange. Hermione watched with that same sick satisfaction curling its way around her gut. Maybe she could never tell which truth it was on his face, and what it meant, but at least he _hurt_. "That's not what I meant at all."

"Then what did you mean?" she demanded. She felt bold and stepped forward, towards where he still sat prone in his chair. She wanted to twist this little dagger and see what happened. Maybe she'd be surprised. She wanted to be. She wanted so badly to be wrong. "Enumerate unto me, Loki _Liesmith_. Why do you want me on Asgard so badly? You keep telling me it's for _me_, that you want _me_, but I can't believe that. You taught me better than that. There's always a purpose. You're right. There always is. And I don't know yours."

"I want _you!_" he said, rising from his chair. His voice was raised at last, matching hers. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes." Her chin jutted out. "Yes, it is." Her theories came tumbling forth in a rush, pieces she had painstakingly knit together when she couldn't escape the thought of him this last year. "You've spent this whole time fussing over prophecies, haven't you? All your books, I know you mixed up your readings so I wouldn't guess, but I figured it out, you were the one who taughtto me to carefully watch even my friends! Give me that much respect. What's so interesting about my world? What do we have that you want? Why can I get it and you can't? What did you read that bothered you so much that you'd want some mortal girl tagging along? I know you hate us all." She stepped forward again, feeling braver than she ever had before, even as she had looked into Harry's eyes and told him he had to die. "And I bet there's more, too. I don't understand any of it but I see that there's something, _something, _and I'm going to figure it out. What webs do you weave, Loki?"

"This is what I want." His fists were curled. "Exactly this. The irony _cuts_, Hermione. Can you not see? I want something that will **fight**. Something that will push at me until I'm stronger than anything else. Something that will grow and never stop growing. Something that—" His eyes looked into her, almost pleading. She didn't dare believe it. "You're what I saw those years ago now, a little rat of a girl that picked a fight over a chair but so much better. I never lied to you about being at my side in Asgard. I will not be able to do this alone. You do not see as I see, there is so much that needs to be done in the Realms, whole societies that need to be _shifted, _worlds rotting out from within_..._"

"You don't want _me_," she said, her voice cold. "You want a machine to think for you and catch your errors."

"No," he cried out. She could taste the magic crackling at his fingertips, a tang like metal in her mouth. "No, _no_, I need a creature who _feels_, can't you see?"

"The _appearance_ of feeling, maybe! But **I** can't do that, _feeling_ on command, that's not how feelings work at all. And even so, it wouldn't make you feel any better about—about whatever it is you have in mind. You can't just manipulate people like this, break them down into little functions to push around on a board like a game of chess!"

Loki's face twisted into an ugly smirk. "It is. You can see that. In that war you just fought, did your friends not also become functions? Just because you care about something doesn't mean you don't also think of them in terms of what they give and what they take and what they do. Hermione, I wish to give you _worlds_—"

"And take what of me?" She stood straight. "You want someone to love you unconditionally as you change those worlds in ways that you think are for the better? Someone you'd like to think would disagree with you, but even more you'd like if they never did because it means you're right? Someone who will—" she nearly choked on the word "—_love _you as you truly are and somehow never say anything against you? You say you want to be questioned and that's why you care so much for me but I don't believe you. I don't believe that you'll ever stop testing me. And, I don't believe that you actually want to be tested yourself. You just want to win."

"Speak for yourself," he spat. "Is it not a game to you? You don't seem like you would ever be able to stop testing, questioning _me_. What a challenge **I** present to your dull mortal life. Did you ever believe in me, truly? Of course not. But I don't make a fuss."

The words stung like a slap. "You're blaming this on me?"

Loki looked at her long and hard. "Don't make this a war, Hermione. We don't have to fight. We're not like them."

"You're not any different from them!" Hermione said, almost shouting. "I can't believe you, I can't believe anything of you." She laughed and it sounded bitter, unlike herself even to her. "I kept imagining you were there. Watching me. Waiting for me to crack. What'd be worse? That I wanted you to be there all along watching me win a war that should never have had to be fought in the first place, or that I wanted you to step out of the shadows and sweep me away from it all? What does that make me? I want to hate you." Her voice rang with longing she didn't even know was there before, every word foreign and familiar at the same time. Everything just seemed to _spill_ as a saucer falls to the floor. "I want to hate you but you made me this, didn't you? I could have been just another bit player plodding along helping where she could, and instead I'm some—some _avenging angel_, that's what Ron calls me now, he thinks it's a _joke_. They all thought I was brilliant before, but how are they going to forget any of this, how can I ever be normal to them? I'm just some freak again. I don't have a place here. Is that what you wanted? Maybe I wanted it... years ago, when I was a _child,_ everyone all impressed with me and thinking I'm some sort of mastermind who can save the world, but I don't want it now." She was crying again but she was so tired. She couldn't care. "Did you want me isolated, alone? Is all this just another game to you? Did you plan this, me falling apart bit by bit in front of you? How's the story going to end, Loki? Tell me. Make it end. I'm tired. Stop playing games if you don't even like them." She cried harder, sobbing now and clutching herself as she stood surrounded by books older than her parents, her grandparents, her great grandparents, a reminder of her mortality that pained her to the bones that would one day be buried in the earth. "I'm so tired. Why can't I go with you? Why can't it be like it was?"

She couldn't see his face clearly through her own tears, but she saw him step back, unwilling or unknowing of what to do. She didn't know. Didn't care, almost. He wasn't giving her what she needed. Suddenly she wanted Ron there, and Harry, and their big forgiving smiles that could somehow overlook just how freakishly inhuman she felt. All Loki could do was stare. He wouldn't touch her. Couldn't. "I don't think," he said, "you're entirely ready for Asgard. You're right; you do have your own little world to save. I won't begrudge you it. But, I will..." He rummaged in his robes for a moment and brought out something, on a chain.

Blearily she rubbed at her eyes until she could see properly again. His face was calm once more, wiped clean like a slate, pristine and perfect for the next great performance. She was too tired to feel bitter about it. From his fingertips dangled her Time Turner, sparkling crystal and silver and gold. "For when you change your mind."

"When will that be?" Her voice cracked. She had shattered into so many pieces, how long would it take to find them all?

"I don't know." His smile was small and wry. He seemed so used to heartbreak. Or was he simply sociopathic? She didn't know. Didn't care. Either answer hurt her; maybe they were the same thing. "There is an awful lot wrong with this world that you somehow love so much. It might take you a while to get over it."

"I know," she said, and her face crumpled. "Oh, I _wish_ I could go with you. But if—_when_ I go to Asgard, I—I don't know if I'll be able to make myself come back, and I don't know if I can forgive that. Forgive _myself_. Do you see?" She stared at the Time Turner hungrily. "It's going to take me so long to figure out what to do. How to make this all work out the way we want it to."

He smiled sadly. "I know," he replied. He seemed like a statue. She wished he'd stand there for forever, suddenly not wanting this moment to ever end, so sweetly balanced on the edge she had been dancing on these seven years. She was falling, she knew, off to one side, finally. That was what she wanted, wasn't it? Resolution? A tidy life. None of...none of _this._

But she wouldn't have her absolution as long as she had the Time Turner. _What if_ would be a twirl away. She touched his fingers as she took it from him, lightly though her hands were unsteady and shaking from exhaustion. She wanted to fling herself into his arms but couldn't. That would be what a girl would do. She wasn't supposed to be a girl anymore. His eyes were cool, more forbidding than any concrete wall.

"Will I see you again?"

"That is up to you." He held his hands wide and open at his sides.

She bit her lip, considering what to do next. "I'll miss you," she said eventually, clutching the Time Turner in her hands. Cold crystal. She felt like she was at the end of a long fever and wanted desperately to sleep.

"I know." His face was still. He seemed tired too. So tired. She wondered whether it was the truth or not. It probably was, though like most things with Loki, it probably meant something than other what she thought it was. She couldn't expect anything less. She felt the bitterness and the anger recede like after the tsunami. Oh, she felt so broken inside, but that really wasn't any different from any of the other little earthquakes. She knew that now. This was life. This was love. She was done growing up now. _Fin_. Now follow through.

"Be happy," she whispered. "Please be happy."

"I'll try." He was looking at her again. His eyes were milky pale, touched with blue. She almost felt like crying again. This was so hard. She wanted there to be some compromise—maybe he'd visit occasionally, or she'd become the goddess he craved her to be and help her friends then—but that wasn't how either of them were. It wasn't fair, but people could never be fair to themselves. Then, fiercely, he added, "Don't make me regret this. I hate to give up what is mine, even for a little while."

"Isn't the point of this that I'm no one's?"

"Don't tempt me, little lioness." Loki's eyes crinkled. "I've forgiven you so far."

"I forgive you too." She looked up at him. "Really. I know I've been awfully angry this whole time, but—do you understand? I never know whether you understand or not."

"I understand. Better than you know."

She closed her eyes. She didn't feel like she _knew_ herself, though she felt something that she didn't entirely know how to put into words. She had a lifetime to figure that out. It seemed like a rather necessary prerequisite to godhood. Maybe, then... or maybe not. She wanted to believe him. Any of it. If just one scrap could be proven true, she felt that she could put up with the rest. But that was not for now.

She smiled at him, and rubbed the last remnants of the tears out of her eyes. "Goodbye," she said, and finally—squared her shoulders, turned around and left the way she came.

**END PART ONE OF APHELION**

**A/N**:

Arguments are really difficult to write. I was trying to capture the sense of unbalance, of two people talking past each other in a sort of heightened emotional state. It's a pet peeve of mine that when most people write arguments, they make them these tidy, linear things that make absolute perfect sense to all parties, but that's just not how real people work. But, it's difficult to write from a somewhat incoherent state of mind in a manner that will _still _be coherent to readers; how did I do? Comments, criticism? As always, I'm more than willing to go back and fiddle around with anything that doesn't feel quite right. And, of course – despite how, erm, unfortunate this may read, did it nonetheless feel in character? A number of reviewers noted how it felt good that she was finding that moral center of hers again; does this run true to that? And, of course, Loki - sufficiently enigmatic for y'all? I was trying to make it clear that he's not being entirely honest still without hitting you guys over the heads with it too much. Did the little changes I made to the HP canon make sense? It didn't feel quite right for me for Hermione to sit down and do a recap of the last year, so I tried to slip in the changes here and there. Too subtle, too in-your-face, just right?

Revised as of 1/9/13

Constructive criticism much appreciated!


	9. Bad Wings

**PART TWO OF APHELION**

**Chapter Eight: Bad Wings**

**Twelve Years Later**

**March 23, 2010**

"Hermione Jean Granger. International Liaison for the Department of Mysteries." Harry leaned forward over his desk, green eyes bright behind his glasses. "A title like that almost makes you sound like the responsible sort, doesn't it?"

Hermione sighed. A war hero, an Unspeakable once over and a bureaucrat squared for more than a decade, and people still seemed to be skeptical of whether she was responsible enough for her work. She primarily did data collection and analysis of global-scale trends in magical fields and ley lines too big to be captured by any one Ministry; it was far less dangerous than Harry's line of work as an Auror, and yet _she _was always the one getting questioned about this sort of thing. Silly expectation, really, considering that Unspeakables were obviously not allowed to actually _speak _about their work with anybody else. "One would think so."

Harry leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead; though the scar didn't hurt him anymore, more than a decade later, old habits die hard. "Just because you have 'international' written on your paycheck doesn't mean you can just go swanning off to bloody _America _whenever you feel like it."

"Nor is there any reference in the job description to oversight by the Aurors," she countered smoothly. She pointedly pushed her portkey requisition form forward on his desk, lost as it was amongst the sprawl of papers. Despite being the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Harry had somehow managed without having acquired either any organizational acumen _or _a personal secretary. "We're out of our quota for the month, but I really need to get these readings."

"Bullshit. The Department of Mysterious Leverage gets whatever the hell it wants." Harry tapped one finger thoughtfully on the form. "I think you're avoiding Bill Weasley for some reason. What is it this time? Honestly Hermione, you could just _tell _me these things."

No, she really couldn't—to either of them. What was she supposed to say? _I'm hoping to run into this old friend of mine who happens to be a slightly sociopathic Norse God that I've never told you about? We haven't talked in ten years, but it looks like he or something with magic scarily similar to his own is altering the weather over in New Mexico so I thought I'd say hi. Oh, and this'll be on my timesheet by the way. You know, trying to make science personal and all, it's a PR thing._

A little white lie usually got her through things a whole lot faster, and to the harm of no one—and Harry was still pretty gullible, if you knew which buttons to push. "Fine. Bill would insist on having a security detail with me, because I'll be collecting data in a previously untested field site. Standard, if utterly unnecessary, procedure. How_ever_, the sort of analysis I need to run is extraordinarily delicate; having any more extraneous magical fields around than absolutely necessary could seriously harm the integrity of the readings. Tracking the nuances in ley lines is difficult enough when I'm on my own, let alone when I've got a bunch of bumbling wannabe scientists around casting unnecessary spells left and right."

Harry blinked. "That... was easier to understand than what I usually hear out of your Department."

"Would you prefer it if I used big words?"

"Oh, hell no." Harry laughed. Hermione didn't, impatient. After a moment he sighed and picked up the proffered paper. "So, where is it you want to go—the middle of New Mexico? There aren't any Dark Wizards hiding out there Wild West style, are there?"

"That's your department, not mine."

Harry kneaded his forehead again. "Don't make this harder than it already is. Sure. I don't have that much of a problem going over Bill's head. If half the stories he tells me are true, it sounds like you do that plenty already."

Hermione remained stonily silent. What could she say? She wasn't going to defend herself; sometimes everyone else was just _wrong. _It wouldn't do her a lot of good to point out to Harry that he was often one of those people.

Harry scrutinized her for a few long minutes, green eyes still brilliant despite the obvious worry. Father, husband, Auror, friend. Not bad for a man in his early thirties. "Still... there's a reason everyone on Ministry business goes in pairs. _Everywhere_. That's been the rule for the last ten years. You remember the trials, how many minds had been hacked into by Lord Voldemort. When agents, of _any _Department, are placed in a potentially dangerous situation, they need to be able to be monitored by others. One agent down could compromise an entire department before we identify who's been Imperiused."

"I've got more sensors tied to my body than a Martian rover," Hermione argued. "If anything goes wrong, Bill will be the first to know."

"And that might be too late," Harry argued back. "Dammit Hermione, why do you always have to make it so hard for others to take care of you?"

"Because I don't need taking care of," she replied coolly. "I'd like to take a portkey to the middle of nowhere and take some standard readings, _that's all_. I don't need to have Ministry resources wasted on chaperoning me like some I'm first year lab assistant fresh out of their NEWTs. Wouldn't you prefer your Aurors out and about investigating cold cases or the latest wannabe Dark Lord or some such?"

She had him now; she repressed a smile. Harry always had a hard time denying things to her, let alone when paired with some appeal to the 'greater good'. "Fine," he said, resigned. "I'll sign the damn requisition papers. I'll even give you a head start on Bill. If—" and here he took on that childlike glint in his eyes, like they were back in school again "—and _only _if you come to the Burrow for dinner this Sunday."

Hermione automatically opened her mouth to protest. "I'm working—"

"You're _always _working," Harry interrupted.

"I've got some really important projects—"

"Projects, plural?" Harry looked at her, doubtless trying to impart upon some wisdom he had learned as a family man. "On a _weekend_?"

She didn't feel like biting. "Like I said. Important."

"Bill makes time, and he's your supervisor."

"Bill makes time, _because _he's my supervisor. Not a researcher." Not a scientist. _No_. He was a husband and a father and a friend right down to his fuzzy warm heart of his. They all were like that. _Good _for each other. She wasn't. Why was that so hard for them to understand?

Harry sighed, again. Did exasperated men know exasperating they were? "Look. Just stay for coffee even, even if you don't want Mrs. Weasley's full course brunch extravaganza? We haven't seen you in a while. We miss you."

Hermione desperately wanted out of the room. She picked at the sleeve of her jacket where the pill had been accumulating. _Stylishly frumpy_, Ginny had joked once, before she had become the mother of three perfect Potter babies.

"You could bring someone along?" Harry asked tentatively. "I know Unspeakables like to stick to themselves..."

She didn't know how to tell him that it didn't mean they stick to _each other. _There wasn't anyone else, and hadn't been for years. Why he kept _trying _with her was absolutely unfathomable. Some dogged sense of loyalty, she supposed, gratitude over a war well won in his name. That had been twelve years, a lifetime ago.

Yes. She stuck to herself now, a sort of hyper introversion that had her plunged into the chattering of her computers since she couldn't seem to stand other people any more.

But she wouldn't tell him that either. He'd worry, and take time away from that perfect life of his, now halo'd round him as a half circle of photographs on his desk; he was perpetually surrounded by happy memories.

"No," she said at last, "that's quite alright. I'll come quietly."

Like a criminal, strung up for judgment by a jury of peers.

It'd be worth it, if she was right.

As she left Harry's office, portkey procurement form held tightly in hand, she couldn't hold back a small, nervous smile.

It'd be worth it if she could just figure Loki _out._

* * *

Or maybe not. She hated the desert. Hated everything about it. The hot, sticky sand that crept down her socks to scratch at her in the tender spots between her toes, the sun that burned her an unhappy shade of lobster red instead of tan, the way sweat covered her skin in a sticky sheen, the way her hair hung lank yet somehow managed to be dankly frizzy at the same time...

_Hated_ it.

Hermione looked up into an endlessly blue sky, shutting the door to her rental car. Except... here, there was the silence, or what passed for it compared to London. Previously the only sound had just been the low purr of the engine as she drove out of Albuquerque and into nowhere. Even then it had been quieter than anything she had experienced in months, at the very least since her last deep field assignment.

She grimaced. But, she always seemed to be paired up with some too-perky partner who couldn't shut up about how exciting it was to work with someone as famous as Hermione Granger, so _thrilled _to have this opportunity to work with such a renowned revolutionary of magical theory, wasn't it all just _fantastic_?

Once upon a time, maybe she'd have liked the enthusiasm. Embraced it, even. Now, it just seemed to remind her of that... that _spark_ she had lost somewhere along the way.

It was better to work alone. She could at least hear herself think out here, in a way she hadn't for years indeed. Silence, proper silence where she could hear the beat of her heart and the breath entering in and out of her lungs like a song against the chattering symphony of little desert birds and the crackle of dry brush rubbing against itself in the hot wind.

She sighed. She hadn't had proper peace and quiet since those heady days at Hogwarts when the only sound for long lovely hours were pages turning and two people breathing together, opposite the other in great squashy chairs that barely groaned when they shifted weight occasionally to grab a new book, or to talk to each other, or...

She closed her eyes, and counted slowly to ten in all the languages she knew.

**Stop it**.

Hermione chanted some Notice Me Not charms for the car, and after a moment's thought, an infrared-only reflecting charm to keep the heat of the sun out. It was not long before sundown, but she had learned not to underestimate just how hot the inside of Muggle cars could get if left to their own purely mechanical devices. One of the few practical uses for wavelength-specific reflecting charms she had spent so long perfecting—at least, in the magical world: there were Muggle engineers who'd gladly sacrifice their favorite gaming rigs for such arcane trickery.

Her portkey drop point in Albuquerque had brought her close, relatively speaking, to the site of the ley line anomaly—any more transportation that involved bending spacetime were sure to mess with her readings. Theoretically she could have flown the rest of the way, but she much preferred Muggle driving to that, even in a country that seemed peopled by lunatics in SUVs who insisted on driving on the wrong side of the road.

As she had driven through increasingly deserted landscapes, where her presence could theoretically be noted by whomever was dispersing the signature she was tracking, she had begun layering spells of invisibility over the car, even thinking to remove the sound of the engine and the shadow out from beneath it. It made driving even more dodgy, as none of the other occasional drivers could even see her now, but at least she went forth safe in the knowledge that if the magical anomaly did turn out to have Loki's smiling visage—or someone else forging a too-similar signature—they wouldn't see her coming.

After she had ensured the car wouldn't overheat, she set her wand in the palm of her hand. Her magic had become increasingly intuitive over the years: she willed the wand to direct her towards the unusual radiation one of her American colleagues had noted and forwarded to her from half a world away.

At her waist her ringtone tinkled; she sighed. And as such, she was bound by the likes of Bill Weasley, who seemed to have finally figured out that she wasn't in her office. So much for a head start. She plucked the modified mobile phone from her waist and flicked it open. "Granger speaking."

"For once, you actually answer the phone," Bill grumbled by way of greeting. "Have I mentioned how much I hate it when you do field work? All those servers, _humming _to themselves, all alone in their own little room. They're probably plotting against us all."

She allowed a smile to creep its way across her face, though it wilted even before she made her reply. "They're just computers. They don't bite. In fact, that's rather the point. They do _exactly_ what I tell them to do and nothing else. That's how programming works. And they certainly don't _plot._"

At least, for now. While Muggle computers had advanced significantly since her time at Hogwarts, it was still only good for comparatively crude, strictly statistical analytics. Useful for her type of large scale work with ley lines, which was most comparable (and sometimes directly intersecting) Muggle modeling of weather systems and magnetic fields; not so much for most of what the rest of the Department of Mysteries did. Consequently, Hermione was the only Unspeakable currently dabbling in programming work—and her own creations were a far cry from those of Tony Stark and other genius savants she would read about. Her sizable rack of computers certainly weren't clever enough yet to program themselves. Artificial intelligence was flashy, but far more difficult than the telly made it seem to be.

Still, the Department of Mysteries, perhaps by nature of its intensely esoteric work, also happened to be the most open minded in the Ministry. Hermione's liberal concepts, everything from Wizarding versions of cell phones to an empirical approach to research, found a happy home amongst the Unspeakables.

Well, mostly happy. Bill and others were still not entirely comfortable with technology that were supposed to be in some respects replacing their brains. They had a room for that once, thank you, before it had gotten blasted by Death Eaters chasing after her in that disastrous end to her fifth year, and those brains _bit. _Who's to say her servers wouldn't rise up and rebel against all those who had ineptly pecked away at their keyboards when their mistress wasn't around?

Across the line, an ocean away, Bill Weasley laughed. So much better than owls and coins and cute little patronuses. "Exactly what I tell them, eh? Sounds better than a certain employee of mine who refused to take a partner with her, and instead tried to get around standard regulations by talking to my _brother in law. _Really, I should be insulted."

She winced a bit. Really, this had been the best job she could have possibly asked for, and they had been the ones asking after _her_. Every time she felt the slightest touch of melancholy trailing its cold fingers down her face, she could simply dive into her work once more and forget it all. She was a powerful witch now, and she knew it: ten years of nonstop research and development did that to a person. Hermione approached her own life as intensely as she could, and the results that blossomed up around her were the closest thing to satisfaction that she could feel. Convenient scaffolding, nothing more.

Like most Unspeakables, she was given free reign to putter about with her own pet projects, as long as she produced interesting results every so often that at least vaguely had to do with her directive. Unique to her position, she also had to satisfy research requests from other institutions with which they shared a mutual information exchange pact, such as their American counterparts based out of Arkham.

Still... she couldn't seem to be alone _enough. _She didn't play well with others. Hadn't they heard? Rules were made to be broken as needed—and she certainly didn't need anyone else breathing down her neck. Not Harry, and certainly not Bill. They spent so much time with their families that they didn't understand. Couldn't. Which... would be fine, as long as they would just leave her _alone_.

"I needed to get away for a while," she said, truth enough that she didn't think he'd catch the lie hiding beneath; Loki had taught her well. "Besides, no one else in our Department is any good with this sort of work, you know that. Half the Unspeakables still don't know what EM radiation even _is_."

She was still something of an oddity in the Department, didn't fit in even into the institution where all the odds and ends of the rest of the Ministry were placed. She had wanted to learn Muggle sciences, for example, and early on had coaxed Bill into paying her to essentially sit in a Muggle university library for six months absorbing... well, whatever looked like it could have applications in theoretical magic—physics, chemistry, anything and everything she could get her hands on.

This gamble had paid for itself times over with discoveries their Department wouldn't have dreamed of fifteen years ago when they had first started, and even now Bill sent off even more Unspeakables to be cross trained in studies that to them were a far from mundane as magic was to the Muggles they learned from. She was proud to be the first, and prouder still that she would be far from the last.

Eventually, she and Bill and a handful of other Unspeakables had hoped, such ideas as this could even seep into other Departments, perhaps even integrate itself into Hogwarts itself: education in calculus alongside arithmancy, chemistry with potions, physics and transfiguration. It had made their Department _alive_ again, meaningful once more to the Ministry. Why not the entirety of their stagnated world?

She could almost see Bill's brow crease. And to think, the Muggles had developed _video _phones as the Wizarding world dithered over whether the nonmagical were worth their time! "I'll admit, maybe I've sent too many newbies your way lately, but—I just don't feel comfortable, you being alone." He laughed again, though it sounded a bit forced. "Besides, if you die, we aren't allowed to keep ghosts around anymore after the incident with Professor Binns."

"I expect that ghosts can't type anyway, being non-corporeal and all."

"Have we actually tested that one?"

Hermione paused. "I could put in a request," she deadpanned.

Bill laughed. "I mean, really—free undead labor? We don't even need to pay for a pension. If you're up to haunting the server room for us, surely we could come up with _something. _We're good at that."

And it wouldn't even be the strangest thing the Department had studied. Everyone _tinkered__, _each to their own—exactly how Hermione liked it.

Which made things like supervisor oversight in field work especially irritating. The time was ticking away now, word by word that Bill Weasley wasted on convincing himself that she'd be alright.

"Was there anything else?" she asked, impatient to get on with her research.

Bill sighed, a rush of static. "Isn't this supposed to go the other way around? Aren't_ I_ the one who is supposed to be dismissing _you_?"

_Probably_, she thought, but kept silent. She did her own thing. That was how it worked. That was how it always worked. She got him results—spectacular results—and Bill would take everything she had to give. It was what she wanted. It was what she _needed. _He knew that, better than any of the other Weaseleys, that workaholism was the only salve she had to ease the wounds left by the War—and by Loki.

Bill's second sigh crackled over the connection. "You seem alive enough, at any rate, unless there's some new species of zombie out there that can hold its hands steady enough to work a phone—in which case I want a full report by tomorrow." Another bad joke. She didn't laugh, and he sighed again. "Sorry. Permission granted to gather your readings."

"Thank you," she said, and summarily hung up.

**Finally**.

Using one hand to shade her eyes against the sun, she set her wand in the other, palm up, and let it point its way to the source of the strange readings she had detected earlier. The readout from her wand, a complex array of numbers and letters from a diagnostic spell she had crafted herself that took into account Muggle concepts such as different types of electromagnetic radiation. In turn, this data was being continuously uploaded into the vast hard drives that Hermione had assembled in her own little office at the Department, thanks to a generous extension charm and a personal satellite she had spent a week—carefully—magicking into orbit. The readings were there compared to all previous readings she had taken, looking for any type of connection that could prove of interest to the data-driven witch. When she said she wasn't interested in working with others, she had been serious: she already had a partner, her _computer,_ and it was sitting safe as can be in her office in London where she didn't need to worry about it getting hit by stray spells or whatever other troubles plagued their human counterparts.

It had taken quite a bit of time to set it all up, and really she hadn't gotten it all completely sorted until just a few years ago, but the results were striking. She had discreetly analyzed each of the broken Horcruxes, for example, and had found a matching signature in each of them. A call out to her sister departments in other countries had yielded a few other shattered Horcruxes made by the occasional wannabe immortal, and between them she had triangulated a single generalized signature for what the soul left behind after it had been forced from its vessel. She had then forwarded the results of this small inquiry to those in the Soul Room in her own Department, those who were exploring the nature of the soul, as proof of concept.

Magic could only work up to a point when exploring magic itself; consequently, deep discoveries in the nature of magic had become few and between in the last century beyond speculative metaphysics. _Stagnation_, just as sure at the Muggle world was exploding into electromagnetically driven life with everything from the Internet to mobiles. Wizards and witches had much to learn from their non-magical counterparts, not least of which quantitatively based empiricism to catch subtler trends than what could be caught by minds alone.

This had been one of many discoveries that had made Hermione very popular amongst her fellow researchers. They thought her some sort of magical messiah, a genius amongst the most brilliant the Wizarding had to offer. She wasn't. She just pointed out obvious connections that no one else had thought to see before—or more importantly if they had seen them, couldn't be arsed to work hard enough to prove and present it to others. She might be changing the world, bit by byte, but only because she was conveniently situated to do so: a moderately talented Muggleborn with a tendency towards workaholism, whose projects were rarely denied due to her high political standing and enduring popularity because of her critical role in the War. She wasn't anything special. Just a hard worker.

She closed her eyes. To think, as a child, she had thought this was exactly what she wanted.

_Recognition_.

If only she had known then that recognition alone was not enough to make her happy.

With her spare hand she fiddled with her right ear. Along the edge were strung a series of pale pearls pierced into her flesh, from one scarcely the size of a pinhead tucked in at the top, others getting consecutively larger with each pierced a little further down until the largest that dripped from the lobe like a tear. Each one had a purpose, though no outside observer using even the most intricate scanning currently devised would be able to divine them without Hermione to unravel the protections around them. Perhaps some noted that she fiddled with her ear a lot, but no one could see the pearls; everyone would just figure it to be another nervous habit of a woman who lived and worked alone and was still whispered to have been the one to have won the last war.

The teardrop was the Time Turner. She told herself it was there in case of emergency situations when fatal catastrophe would occur if she did not change the course of time, but she had been clever enough thus far over the course of her work that it had not yet come to that. Mostly, it served as a constant reminder, every time that it butted against the sensitive place where her jawline met the soft skin of her neck, that she was living a life she did not _have_ to live, but rather _chose_ to. It was the best armor she had against the memories of Loki, reminders of her own personal agency.

She could hear him in the back of her head sometimes, almost a simulacrum in itself, laughing at her with each brand new day that so slowly passed her by, each faint new gossamer wrinkle spreading from her eyes like spiderwebs slowly weaving a web to trap her into an eventual death as she slowly, steadily, inevitably aged. She was only about to turn thirty in a few months, depending on how you counted her year with the Time Turner, and what was she in her life? No goddess, certainly. But she was saving her world, changing it for the better in a way that might be too subtle even for Loki to see, carefully and quietly and patiently. That was enough. That _had _to be enough. Otherwise she could always just turn the dial to her eighteen year old self and change it all—but she still had too much pride in her soggy little island to admit that she wasn't quite satisfied with what she had chosen for herself.

And that, she supposed, was reason enough to make it not a choice at all, as much as the conclusion slipped about like an eel in her stomach.

The other pearls were no less powerful. Her disarming of Draco during the final battle at Hogwarts had rendered her control of the Elder Wand, though she hadn't said a word of to anyone else. Harry suspected, probably, but he didn't want to be burdened with much of anything anymore. He was Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, an Auror just as he had always dreamed, but he still bowed down to Minister Kingsley with a weary happiness. Another child made tired too quickly. Harry didn't want to lead. None of them did.

Pinching this pearl would unlock it from its own little pocket dimension and it'd come sliding out into her hand, something she only did when disarmed—or when she was attempting magic otherwise beyond her abilities. She didn't like to make a fuss with it; showing it off had done quite enough harm to its previous owners. Having two wands was common enough amongst the more powerful wizards and witches, so if anyone noticed they did not think it strange.

She was already considered _scary_; her choice of wand could scarcely change that.

Dumbledore's gift of the Resurrection Stone to Harry—more like a desperate throw to the only place he knew it wouldn't immediately fall into Death Eater hands—had been made in comparative secret, and in the aftermath of the Final Battle the trio had agreed that it should not be turned over to the Ministry. As default leader, Hermione had been left to tend to it—and there were no spaces as safe as on her person. She had slipped it into a tiny gold-hued pearl, one left as untouched as the Time Turner. She might be terrified at the dizzying array of futures that the Time Turner presented, but the thought of no future at all frightened her even more. It was silly, being deliberately mortal yet afraid of the entirety of what that entailed, but she didn't want to meddle with death any more than she had to. The War had been quite enough for her, though she supposed she didn't have any choice about seeing death at least one more time at the end of her own life.

The rest of the pearls were little portkeys, each bespelled to some important person—Harry and Bill, as close to friends as she had left; Kingsley, to whom she directly reported about the more political side of her position; Minerva with whom she shared tea with every Sunday afternoon to talk about the latest in (publicly available) Transfiguration research... Ron still had a pearl of his own as well, but mostly she only saw him on the rare occasions Bill could coax her—or Harry coerce her—into coming one of the sprawling get-togethers at the Burrow.

Hermione couldn't really stand crowds. The Department of Mysteries was thinly populated, compared to most Departments and _particularly _as compared to the Burrow, but even then... It was just too many people thinking too many things.

Harry seemed to understand this, to an extent, as did Bill somewhat. Percy too, once he was allowed back into the merciless warmth of the Burrow. Ron tolerated her increasing introversion... or had, at any rate. She grimaced at the memories Whenever she'd turn down drinks at the bar or something similarly loud, he'd always take it so_ personally. _Ron certainly had something of a sore spot for not being good enough for her—his parting jibe during their break up, in fact, which ran at odds to the awed way in which he'd call her _perfect_ in sweeter times. Everyone seemed to feel the need to draw her in, to make her smile and laugh until she ached and wanted nothing more than to sleep alone in her flat for days.

Perhaps she didn't give enough credit to her friends, such as they were—twelve years after the War and they all had their own lives. Some of them seemed to at least accept her for who she was, a woman who burned with a cold sort of fire and kept mostly to herself lest she burn them too. Still, none of them really knew her. She couldn't let them. How could she? She couldn't stand the disappoint of sinking into someone only to have them not _understand_.

Her fling with Ron had been doomed from the start but she had pursued it anyway, hoping that the specter of Loki's mocking eyes would go away but it never did. Loki had known her. Loki had poked about in the depths of her soul and had declared her _fit_, an acceptance so profound she hadn't ever felt since and couldn't imagine ever feeling again. Ron for her had been an achingly close perihelion, and she almost gave up to fall into the gravity of an easy life with easy affection and easy pleasures, but it was not what she wanted.

She had given up Loki, Asgard, _godhood_, just so she could have at fixing her home and native land. She had thought staying on Earth was the _unseflish_ thing to do at the time but... sometimes, sometimes, looking back at the lies she had had to spin to cover up her involvement with Loki, how one by one she had drifted away from her schoolday friends like a sailing boat from severed anchors, how she so _desperately _applied herself to her work, she wondered if staying had been unselfish at all, but rather a profoundly childlike act of pride. She couldn't trust Loki, no. But why fuss? There wasn't a soul in this world she could truly trust. They all lied in their own ways. Sometimes, they weren't even aware of it, not understanding the depths of their own intentions.

Such thoughts, each time she had them, seem to leave her colder than before. She wondered if eventually she'd stop going to the Burrow entirely. She wondered, perhaps one day, she'd stop bothering with her research. Maybe she'd stop seeing a point to anything at all.

Hermione could admit that she was depressed, though such self awareness just tended to make her feel worse. It was pathetic, really. If Loki was still watching her, he wouldn't for much longer: he hated disappointing creatures, and what a disappointing life she had led, even if she had seemed like a burning star to everyone else. All Loki would see was the eventual crater when she burned _out_, frail mortality having left what little mark it could.

If he was still waiting, then surely it'd be a waste of time—though she supposed he had plenty to waste. Still, the thought of him waiting seemed almost as pitiful as how she felt about herself: how petty did he have to be, to pine after _her_?

She was almost to the hill the wand been pointing her towards and the sun was lower yet in the sky, still bright in her eyes but redder now: sunset. She did rather like desert sunsets. So full of color. She felt... numb, _gray_ most of the time now. Here she was, following a signature she had last seen when she had turned her wand to her Time Turner to see what Loki had done to it to make it survive the near-destruction of the Department of Mysteries—but also elsewhere, _ following _her like some mocking shadow. That signature were on fresh runes that had appeared on the Veil only a few scarce years before the beginning of her tenure as an Unspeakable. That signature was also on that archway in the library that they had sat beneath so many times, one that McGonagall swore right down to her tartan stockings that though there was a wall on the other side of the arch sometimes she felt someone looking back through of it.

What did this make Hermione, that she had become such a puddle of paranoid thoughts?

_A scientist_, she'd tell herself, every time it came to hunting down something that had the whiff of Asgard about it, _a witch, an Unspeakable, keeping an open mind to all possibilities_. But she was also a woman who had grown up out of a girl too stubborn to admit she was frightened, and she was paying the price now in her continued insecurities. She even knew that this was the case, and that didn't make it even a little bit better.

She wasn't ready yet. Whatever it was that Loki had planned, whatever it was that was so damn _secret_ that he couldn't tell who was likely the one person he had seen fit to occasionally tell the truth to, she wasn't ready. She had explored some of the deepest foundational secrets of her world during her time as an Unspeakable, worked with artifacts and ancient spells that bent the imagination over itself into a mobius strip of multiple dimensions, but she could not be ready for Loki.

She still had a world to save, after all, and she didn't think it would ever stop needing her. Everywhere she looked—even here, walking through this desert with inadequate spell coverage that clearly cried out for a clever hand to craft something better—there was something else that called for _improvement, _every moment of every day until she despaired of ever saving it all.

It was getting dark, now. Her wand jittered with the increased electromagnetic radiation ahead—radio waves leaping out from behind the hill in frenetic, ciphered bursts. She paused, fiddling with the readout from her wand. Her computers back home couldn't seem to crack it—her foray into cryptography had been brief—but it stunk of high end Muggle military. Whatever was sending off that intriguing signal, the Muggleshad gotten here first.

This could get complicated.

She paused, refreshing her own spells of invisibility, and squared her shoulders and began the ascent up the hill. Artificial lighting glowed eerie white over the brow of the summit. _Here's to sufficiently advanced technology_, she thought grimly, _turning night right back into eye-wateringly bright day_. Every shadow even before she approach was cast into high relief, the stones and plants leaping out at her as if afraid.

The lighting also lent itself well to betraying two figures that lay flat on the ground, obviously trying to stay out of eyesight. One was slim, with practical clothes that clung a bit and revealed her to be female, and didn't mind flaunting that fact—other than the great lumpy jacket draped over her shoulders. The woman's every movement scraped against the rocks, even just the act looking through a pair of binoculars at the admittedly fascinating complex down below; she seemed a far cry from being ready for either combat or espionage.

The other figure, however, she took more seriously. Muscular wasn't quite the right word for it: it wasn't the bulging, bulbous mess that bodybuilders seemed to long for, but rather more like the build of a fighter, muscles tense beneath a t-shirt that fit a little too tightly, like an arrow nocked on a bow but not quite ready to fly forth.

Whoever he was, he clearly didn't belong here: her wand twitched in his direction; he gave off a magical signature that was close enough to Loki's to set off alarm bells in her head. Some other god, a messenger?...

Before she could get close enough to investigate, the man began to _run_ down the hillside, bright blonde hair glinting like white gold in the fluorescent lights. The woman, for her part, seemed rather alarmed, though after hugging the jacket to herself and a muttered oath she still followed the man's progress intently through her binoculars. Obviously they had had some sort of disagreement right before Hermione had arrived; he had dismissed the woman just as he had summarily dismissed two guards down below barely a minute later with two brutal blows to the head.

Hermione watched, fascinated but unwilling to get involved. Curious and curiouser. He was running—or rather, fighting—his way towards the source of those oh-so-interesting readings she had caught this morning. He quickly managed to burst through the white plastic walls of the facility itself, disappearing from sight.

"Thor!" the woman whispered in exasperation, and Hermione's heart froze—not so much at the name but at a familiar cool hand curling around her shoulder.

"I've missed you too," Loki's voice teased from behind her, "but I didn't think you were so desperate as to seek out my dear brother."

**A/N: **Revised 1/17/13. This, and the next chapter, used to be combined into a single chapter titled "Bad Wings", but upon the revision enough content was added that I opted to split it up into two, still fairly sizable chapters.

I'm still pretty unhappy with the exposition-to-action/dialogue ratio in this chapter, though it's improving with each revision. Any constructive criticism particularly along those lines is much appreciated. :-)


	10. Starve the Ego, Feed the Soul

**Aphelion 9 (8b) – Starve the Ego, Feed the Soul**

**March 23rd, 2010**

Frankly, she probably should have been expecting something like this, but she was surprised all the same. Hermione whirled about. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here for the show, of course," Loki replied, spreading his hands wide. He wore Muggle attire, a charcoal gray suit, tie and scarf that were certainly were not suited for the desert, let alone combat; clearly he wasn't thinking to get involved in what was quickly becoming a brawl down below as Thor burst out of one of the white plastic tunnels wrestling another guard. Instead, his eyes swept over her face as if in inspection years overdue, then smiled, seemingly satisfied. "Aren't you?"

Hermione didn't know whether to bristle at the nerve of him or to relieved at his concern, so she opted for a third route: asking questions. Old habits die hard, after all. "What show would this be?" Hermione's eyes went to the Muggle woman, whose hand was firmly clasped over her mouth as she watched—_Thor—_enter and reenter the complex, grappling with what Hermione presumed to be various guards.

Guards—guarding what? Were Loki and what must be his brother after something that the Muggles had found? Where did this put Loki—on guard duty, making sure his brother didn't hurt himself, what he had told her was his typical role in his brother's misadventures? Who was the Muggle woman, who Loki was apparently hiding from as well, and what was she doing with such uncareful company?

Loki, for his part, only tutted. "Spoilers," he murmured, lips curving up into a crescent of a smile. "Join me?"

Questions or no, Hermione could feel her heart stop for an excruciatingly sublime moment—that _look _on his face, it was like she had never left that library at all, as if she was fourteen years old once more and so sweetly besotted. **Ugh**_. _She was an Unspeakable, a _scientist _for Merlin's sake. Observations only. Do not intervene. Most importantly, do _not _act like some infatuated swot. "I'll come—_if_ you explain what is going on."

"Such a stranger." His face was moon-pale by the artificial lighting and just as harsh, eyes glittering white stars. "One would think you weren't delighted to see an old friend." He reached out with one hand for her face, without any of the hesitation that had characterized their earlier physical interactions. She couldn't help it: she flinched a bit when he cupped her jaw, the tip of his forefinger just touching the pearl that dangled from her ear.

_No one was supposed to be able to see that. _Her eyes widened, then closed with a shuddering sigh. Of course he could see right through her tricks. He was a thousand years old and she was thirty. She felt too young to know a thing and too old act on it, tired and nervous all at the same time.

"I'm here on official business," she replied as evenly as she could, opening her eyes and meeting his. Her Occlumancy shields, at least, could hold a basic gaze, though she was suddenly uncertain of what would happen if he actively _tried_ to penetrate her mind. How to describe the sense in which one knew a tiger could tear you limb to limb without having ever seen its teeth? Suddenly acutely self aware, she stepped back, out of his reach. "I'm not here for... for _fun_."

"Ah, but the fun has scarcely started." Loki smiled wryly in return and dropped his hand to his side, unabashedly condescending. "You're referring to that little strand of magic I spy connecting your wand to somewhere a long ways away. Tethered, are you? It's good that you manage to escape your own cage from time to time. A clever bit of magic; whoever you've given yourself to—they don't deserve it." He waved a hand and the thread _snapped, _the connection she had back to home base in London breaking like a bit of brittle twine.

This was about when Bill would start to go _crazy. _Maybe he went home to a storybook family every night, but he kept a damn close eye on the people he was responsible for—and probably especially her, given the lectures she had gotten earlier today._ "_They'll be coming for me," she said, her voice flat. She felt queerly numb, unsure of how she felt about... anything of what was going on. There were muffled shouts from below as the blonde man—Thor—continued to knock men over like bowling pins, each after another. The woman, still laying on the ground and oblivious to Loki and Hermione's presence, looked on in mixed horror and fascination.

Gods make the best first impressions; Hermione hoped, if this woman was being dragged along on whatever adventure this would turn out to be, that she had a smoother time with her particular son of Odin than Hermione ever had with Loki.

Though for now, Loki seemed inclined to play the charmer. He held out his arm. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," he said, his smile dazzling beneath the dark sky. "That should mean something now that you've sacrificed such a sizable slice of it to the less generous gods of toil and trouble."

She wondered which star above them he had come from. She wondered why his world was so arbitrarily connected with hers. She wondered how it could be so very easy that she was being pulled into it all again. _Just as an observer_, she told herself sternly. _And the best place to observe is right beside him. _She took his arm and felt her stomach churn. _Just a scientist. An Unspeakable. I live to learn secrets. _

Oh, what a sense of _wonder_ she had around him. Her blood was singing through her nervousness, her numbness, through every wall she had erected in her own mind over the last twelve years. They walked down into the crater and she felt his magic swallow her whole, overwhelming her own.

"Now," he began as they passed into the tunnels of the facility, groaning bodies stretching before them in a sort of untidy landscape, "this is how my brother prefers to deal with his problems. Note that many of them have perhaps permanent damage, no? Quite uncareful. I'm surprised he hasn't broken that woman already, but I suppose he always breaks his toys sooner or later."

Hermione winced. Not that Loki treated the things he toyed with any differently.

Not that she _minded._

She felt distinctly sick at this realization. Self respect was one of those essential attributes for 21st-century feminists.

Loki continued on, oblivious to her discomfort as he stepped over another prone body. "Better that he be unleashed here on Midgard than elsewhere where his royal temper gets whole worlds riled up for war. Father exiled him for provoking the _jotens_." He turned towards her and there was a twist on his face that she couldn't place. "Do you remember what I told you about them?"

"They're... frost giants, yes?" She frowned as they passed deeper into the strange, brightly lit white tunnels. Hence the peculiar ley line readings that had preceded her visit: likely Thor had been cast here via the Bifrost, a sort of interplanetary transport system Loki had told her about once, long ago. "But why... why was Thor sent _here_, then? Why not to Jotunheim to... to apologize, for whatever it was that he did."

"Father would not suffer Thor to learn his lesson by the hand of _monsters." _His face turned into a sneer. "Father has a soft spot for Midgard; runs in the family, I suppose. As for this particular patch of unhallowed ground—" He smirked at her. "You might have a better idea as to that than do I. You always did hunger so very much to learn such arbitrary things. I doubt Father pays enough attention to what happens on this planet to really know the best place to send his son for a time out; he feels that humans do their gods good, but doesn't feel the need to differentiate between particular mortals all that much."

_**I **__certainly____didn't do you any good_, Hermione thought bitterly to herself, watching the scarcely contained glee on Loki's face as they continued to walk through the wreckage Thor had left behind. A source of information was all she was to most people. At least Loki would admit it. "What's your brother after, then, if he's exiled? Something that'll redeem him in your father's eyes?"

They stepped into what must have been the center of the facility, the ceiling suddenly opening up into the sky. There was a crater of sorts embedded into the ground, muddy with mixed rain water and desert dirt, and in the center of that what looked to be a hammer. Thor was moving towards it, a hungry look in his eyes even as he moved with easy confidence and a smile.

And suddenly she knew what it was, even before Loki leaned in, intimately, as if to tell her a secret. "That," Loki murmured, "is Mjölnir. Starforged, back when Asgard took pride in its present and not just its past. We had craftsmen, once, dwarves or apprenticed to dwarves, who would also be trained in sorcery." His face twisted into that ugly, bitter sneer again, an expression that was coming more readily to his face now than she had ever seen before. What had happened to him? "That was, of course, before sorcery became something for _party tricks. _Once upon a time such magical creations were honored not merely as the tools of others but as great deeds in and of themselves, an honor to make as much as to wield..." He stepped back. He seemed manic in the clinical sense of the term rather than poetic, his movements sudden and lacking of their usual grace, his eyes hard, his voice now fast and unhindered. "Father stripped Thor of his power and then sent Mjölnir, his own _weapon_, as reminder of his unworthiness after him. A fitting punishment for an oafish fool, no? It is the only sort of lesson that Thor is capable of learning, but I hope it's not too subtle for him to grasp."

Thor reached for the hammer. She knew that look of confidence. It was Ron leaning in for a kiss, Lockhart casting _Obliviate _with a broken wand, Voldemort dueling Harry before he had realized the Horcruxes were all destroyed. It was a fool's confidence, when one didn't stop to _think _of why something could ever be so easy.

She looked at Loki out of the corner of her eyes. There was that peculiar mixture of malice and fear, something that frightened her far more than the bustling of Muggles about them with their important looking devices. It was not a face she knew; every time she looked at him, it seemed that she saw a different side of a multifaceted god whose many faces winked at her each in turn as he shifted beneath her eyes over the years. This did not seem the Loki who had seemed so vulnerable to her when she had first touched him, any more than it seemed the Loki who had been so fierce in teaching her to fight.

Thor grasped the hammer but could not lift it. She watched the confusion ripple across his face, tensing with a sudden fear. He strained at it, tugging at Mjölnir with all the strength his considerable body had; he could have uprooted trees with that sort of force, yet the hammer would not move. She felt pity move in her, sluggish and heavy and sad. Loki's eyes were changing, hints of ruddy red within gray brown like dead cedar driftwood on a beach. She couldn't place any of the emotions that were on his face, changing too quickly to identify. She _still _didn't know this not-man, and the most terrifying part of it was that she wondered if she was the one who knew him best; he even seemed to hide from his own brother in his time of need.

Everyone had their breaking point, she supposed. The tragedy was in how they overlapped.

"I knew he wasn't worthy," Loki breathed, his face breaking out in what looked like relief. Thor collapsed to the ground. Hermione watched his face break in despair; Loki smiled wider and madder than she had ever seen before. "Father has finally recognized it."

The Muggles began to crowd forward; Hermione found herself shrinking back into Loki's side, invisible but unwilling to get in the way. His suit, wool, was cool to the touch but scratched at her skin. She watched with dispassionate eyes as the Muggle security guards pooled around Thor and bound him up like stunned prey, all the fight in him having been sunk into Mjölnir with nothing given back in return. Thor seemed to be a simple man, simply broken; pity curled cold and queasy around her gut.

She could tell Thor wasn't careful, but Loki had no need to hammer it in like she was the simpleton he mocked. She didn't doubt the stories that Loki had told her over the years; she didn't think even he had the heart to mislead her with the amount of bleakness that lay beneath his casual disregard of his brother. Perhaps he had been deliberate in showing her his fears and insecurities in an attempt to seem more vulnerable, more _human_, but that didn't make them not true: they were lures laid out by a lost little boy who didn't always need lies to get his way.

But while this wasn't _right, _it wasn't her place to intervene. She didn't get involved in things like this anymore. She had had her war, and that had hurt her enough. No more. _No more. _

"I'll say my goodbyes later, if you don't mind," Loki said abruptly after Thor had been taken out of sight. She tried to follow the emotions flickering across his face, but they moved too quick, twitching between love and loss and hate and triumph and too many other things to count. "I'm sure it'll take some time for him to compose his feelings into some semblance of language."

"What will happen to him?" she blurted out, surprising herself somewhat. She didn't care about too many things anymore.

Loki shrugged. Thor disappeared down one of the white plastic tunnels; the Muggles swirled around the two of them like eddying water as they started in on what sounded like a damage assessment. "He'll be found worthy," Loki replied, his voice cool, "or he'll die here a worthless madman. Your kind have asylums for those who delude themselves into thinking that they are something other than what they are, no? I've seen pictures of straightjackets: it'd be such charity, to protect him from himself." His lips curled into an ugly smile. "He can lord over a fine padded cell all he wants and no one but his wardens would have to suffer his idiocy ever again."

"That seems... harsh." Hermione's lips pursed. She could hear the Muggles babbling at each other, giving reports about the amount of damage Thor had rendered to their facility—and about the readings the hammer had been giving off as Thor had approached it. If the Muggles could detect the subtle differences in the EM signature Mjölnir radiated, then uncovering the Wizarding world overlaying their own wouldn't be too far away. SHIELD, their name badges said. Something to talk to Bill about.

Later. _Later. _Loki turned towards her. "Unsubtle folks need unsubtle lessons. Unfortunate, but... a firm hand is often needed." Suddenly his face smoothed into what looked to be the sly smile of a boy spilling a secret. "You will come with me to Asgard," he said, his voice clear and confident.

She blinked. His eyes danced with colors; her heart lurched and ached. "Nothing's changed," she whispered.

"Of course not," Loki replied, obviously unbelieving. She couldn't blame his flippancy; she didn't even believe herself. What was this? Twelve years, then...? He took her by the hand and felt his fingers warm beneath hers. He was reaching out to her. _Her. _His brother had been led away in disgrace and here he was, swelling with a sort of mad confidence that made her think of coup d'etats and master strokes. "Such happy drudgery you've undertaken, how it has dulled the bright shine of your eyes to mud."

She was staring, she knew. Everything felt like an echo from far away, his smile, his laugh, his eyes, the unfamiliar happiness so foreign as it emerged from the dusty rooms in the palace of her mind where it had been left long neglected. Hadn't he seemed mad a few moments ago? It didn't seem to matter. Nothing had really seemed to properly matter for quite some time. She had clung to her research like a scrap of wood in a stormy sea, but here was something from a time when life hadn't just seemed worth living but worth _rejoicing__, _from the smallest detail in saying _you're welcome _to grand gestures of dedicating oneself to saving the world.

She may be older and colder, but something of that _heat_ of youth tugged at her like a riptide, sweeping her off her feet and she squeezed his hand in return. "To Asgard," she found herself replying.

"To home."

Loki, smiling, made a gesture and suddenly colors, brighter and more beautiful than she had ever imagined colors could be, swirled about her, somehow through her. She had just enough awareness of her surroundings to see the men in black suddenly scatter like ants before everything became light, _light_, and the feel of Loki's hand holding hers.

_So this is what interstellar travel feels like_, she thought absently. Apparition was instantaneous, or near enough, with one moment being in one location and in the next in simply another; as she had hypothesized once upon a time, this felt more like a portkey, with the same sort of tugging sensation and the very physical sensation of impossible _movement_. She wondered if the Aurors had started to swarm over the edge of the hill by now, Harry and Bill frantic for her life. She wondered if they had figured out that her last location had been next to an artifact that even most Wizards had dismissed as myth. She wondered what they were going to do about the Muggles picking at it like an exceptionally interesting scab, SHIELD surely more than what a few Obliviates could handle. She wondered, absurdly, if allowing herself to get swept off her feet by a god of lies constituted a violation of the Statute of Secrecy or if it qualified as an act of god; in either case, she'd have quite a bit of paperwork to fill out when she returned to Earth.

When the mad swirling of colors all around them had stopped, she wasn't even granted a moment to collect herself. As she staggered forward, dizzy, she heard a deep voice from in front of her, deep and clear like old church bells: "What mortal is this that you have brought back?"

When she opened her eyes to regain equilibrium it was for perhaps the largest man—or whatever—she had ever seen, though his size was likely accentuated by his heavy golden armor. At her side, Loki was in the same garb he had worn so briefly at the Yule Ball, all black leather and silver and gold. Everything seemed like out of a picture book, or ancient Gringotts vaults, or old tombs: everything seemed to _gleam. _

"This is Hermione of Midgard," Loki declared before Hermione could find her voice, ringing with command from besides her. She glanced over and was startled at the difference in his composure. Here, he was a prince. She had forgotten that sometimes on Earth. "A friend."

The man in the golden armor frowned. Hermione raked her head for a name and found one: Heimdall, the gatekeeper, who saw all. Apparently he was black; the Poetic Edda had forgotten to mention that tidbit. _Why aren't Asgardians racially homogenous? What __**is **__race to them? _Ten thousand questions and no time to answer any of them, as her thoughts were interrupted once more: "I have not seen her," Heimdall intoned, his affect flat, "just as I have not seen you as you have walked on Midgard once more. Explain yourself."

Or perhaps he _didn't _see everything that went on everywhere, contrary to what the myths claimed. Hermione found her spine and stepped forward, loosing her hand from Loki's. If she was going to be fitting in on Asgard, it was time to stop using those contractions when she spoke. "If I may speak for myself," she cut in, keeping her tone liberally deferential; gods seemed like being spoken up to, even if they acted just as human as the next humanoid. "I have known Loki all of my life, but among a people well hidden from the eyes of all in order to not bring attention to ourselves." She didn't know the formal etiquette of the place, but thought that maybe inclining her head might be appropriate. "I am honored to be brought to this place, however, and I thank you."

Heimdall's eyes were exquisite to look into, a brilliant fiery gold Hermione had never seen before, but they were disconcertingly distant. He reminded her a bit of the few genuine seers she had stumbled into during her time as an Unspeakable, though in theory he saw a single crystal clear present that run truer than dozens of cloudy possible futures. "And we are honored to have you," he intoned in return, and also inclined his head. She wondered at his brain: to process audio-visual information from all of their Nine Realms at once! The sheer _processing _power, how did it it _work!_— "I would warn you to be careful during your visit here," he continued, interrupting her thoughts. "There is much that I have not been able see of late, and I may not be able to warn you of harm."

"She will be quite safe with me," Loki said, his voice confident. "A most honored guest, to be kept within our safest halls." He stepped forward, next to her, and offered her his arm once more. "Shall we? I am sure you have many questions. You have had—what, seventeen of your years to come up with them?"

"More than you have time to answer," she said, smiling and taking his arm. He felt cool, familiar. "How the Bifrost works, what that tree there is, what the runes are embedded in this dome, who built it, how, _why... _Loki, that is just this room..."

Loki laughed. She felt like a little girl again, the years slipping off her like ashes in the rain as they went walking down steps that glimmered a shade she had never seen before. "We will have all the time you could ever need," he said, "and more. Hermione, I am _king _now. Thor is gone, and Father in the Odinsleep. Yet we are so close to war with Jotunheim: Thor has provoked them mightily, but he's no longer here to break tables and treaties or any of that and so everything should go so much more smoothly." His smile was fierce and dazzling. "I will protect this place as I will protect _you_."

They stepped out onto an impossible causeway, a thing of shifting lights and half-shattered crystal over a glittering sea beneath stars brighter than she had ever seen before. Everything was beautiful. She felt her heart swell with childish wonder she hadn't had in quite some time.

"I can protect myself just fine," she said out of habit, but her voice was small in this vast space.

His lips curved into a lovely bow. "Perhaps. You may spar here, if you'd like—there are warriors here who have spent a thousand years perfecting their craft, though most regard our sort of magic as trickery. The libraries here are neglected, and small, but they will feel new to you and what few scholars we have will welcome such an inquisitive. And Hermione—" He stopped and turned and took her by the arms. His eyes were crystal bright. She could almost forget that half-madness that had possessed him before. "And I do not forget my promises. Immortality can still be yours, if you should so desire; we can speak of it again once Father wakens. Mother has always ached for a daughter, and though my parents may ache for Thor now that he is gone, I can serve them well enough..." He trailed off, his smile broadening. His enthusiasm was infectious. She felt in her heart, in his, in the space between them, something sweet and keening like a swallow's song.

He had wanted her here all along. He seemed so _true_, here, in this moment. She wondered a bit at why she had never gone back with him, the pearl dangling from her ear now mocking her pride instead of preserving it. She had dreamed of this place so many times, but it had always just been a promise, one amongst the ten thousand made to her in her life that were inevitably betrayed by their own impossibility. She had been drowning in the troubles of others before, but now almost with a manic clarity, she felt that she could _breathe_.

"Do not fear," Loki said softly, his eyes warm, "no, do not fear at all, for they will love you as their own." He pulled her into a tight hug. No dignity, not even a thought for comfort, only a crushing, fierce warmth though the metal of his armor bit into her skin and choked the breath from her lungs. "Do not fear for we are _home _and all can be made right."

She wanted to believe him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

**A/N**:

Revised 3/6/2013


	11. Fortune Days

**Fortune Days**

**March 23rd, 2010**

Loki was uncertain. He was used to limbo, to sit there pondering what decision to make for long days at a time—but his own impulsiveness here had shocked him and left him unsure. Bringing Hermione, to _Asgard_? Yes, perhaps this was preferable to her consorting with Thor in his exile; she had such a nose for trouble that she'd probably even somehow manage to bring his idiot brother back to Asgard. While Loki had not had long to plot when this unexpected opportunity had flung itself at his feet, what plans he had made thus far were nonetheless critical to the survival of Asgard. Having Hermione—or Thor—meddle with them would make things unnecessarily difficult.

No. Best to keep Hermione here, an extraneous variable, but one he could at least keep under close observation.

Besides: he needed time to process the... recent revelations, time to decide on possible outcomes and punishments, time to weave his webs and set them out carefully if he was to catch himself a crown... time he wasn't sure if he had.

Loki sighed heavily, their footsteps echoing through the vast empty halls of Valaskjálf. Still, Hermione's presence had the potential to... complicate things. She had a tendency towards that too, to make things _difficult. _Because of some internal twist of sentimenthe now had that human woman on his arm who needed tending to, something else to somehow make time for. He could hardly ignore her, now that he had her here: after all, she kept her little Time Turner tucked into a little pocket dimension at one ear, winking at him with the promise of all the time in the world if he could just get the damn woman to go along with it all.

And what a woman she was. Wouldn't shut up with her questions for one moment. "Why is it so empty?" she asked.

There were guards, and servants, but it was true: Valaskjálf, the great golden palace of Asgard, was largely silent. "Because we are gods to many," Loki replied with a weary grin, "and we like to prove it ourselves by making larger and larger palaces until there are few enough of us to properly inhabit them."

She frowned a bit, looking around her. They kept a quick pace, secure under an illusory veil that averted casual looks from courtiers and castle guards but did not hide them in the most thorough sense. Heimdall had a habit of becoming suspicious at the most inconvenient times; best not alarm him much, particularly not with Hermione around to ask similarly inconvenient questions. "This might sound silly, but—your parents have been together for _thousands_ of years. Why are there only the two of you? If Asgardians live so long, then why haven't they expanded in population and—and gone to other _stars, _there are so many you can see from Asgard! How can you resist not visiting them all? What do you _do _with that time? Clearly you don't—" she flushed a bit despite herself "—breed."

Loki shrugged. "Again—we think ourselves gods. Think of your own race. When I visited five hundred years ago your families would each have a dozen children and few would live past forty of your years. Now, two parents raise two children, perhaps three, and manage to prolong their lives past a century." He bared his teeth a bit. "Each parent in Asgard thinks that the child they bring forth into this world is, of course, perfect. Why create a second when you already have one bright shining jewel? Two is clutter. Two is _complicated. _Our childhood lasts hundreds of your years; after a thousand years, Thor was to be coronated heir bare hours ago as recognition of his coming of age, until he did something that proved himself still a child." He looked over at her slyly. "My people know too well the taste of fratricide. The Allfather has bastards, of course, but the court in all its courteousness is bidden call them cousins lest his prophesied-excused indiscretions cause some new strife. Asgard fears change, particularly that brought about by the squalling of unpredictable little children."

Hermione opened her mouth, likely to spill out some of her beloved statistics, then shut it again. "Culture," she said instead. "Got it."

Loki smiled to himself. How politically correct she had become. Perfect for the court, as long as she didn't clutter her speech with too much of her science. "And as to why we do not explore the stars..." He paused, briefly, by a window that looked out into that sky. He had been one of the few to carry his fascination with the stars and exploring them all past childhood; that Hermione shared his interest was... refreshing. She reminded him of who he had been, before bitterness had settled so deeply into his bones. "Some of us do," he said, his voice quiet. "But most of Asgard is simply satisfied with staring out at the same view for a thousand years, and listening to the same old stories told and retold in our feast halls by those that fancy themselves adventurous." His lips curled as he thought of the Warriors Three, prior to when Thor had gotten it into his head to join their little band: most of the stories they had told hadn't even been true. "Do you know, in our calendar, that your millennium is counted only as decades by the wheeling of our little planetoid, and we have no true day or night? This twilight we have, all these lovely shades of gold—this thing that your poets and your artists _dream _of, is also all we have, shifting between states only marginally different from each other. It rarely clouds, and then only briefly to water the vegetation as the Allfather decrees; we have only—this. Endless, pitiless perfection."

"I've always been confused by the concept of heaven," Hermione replied softly after a few moments. She was standing next to him. He could feel her warmth inches away; he stood still, doing his best not to lean into her. He so rarely felt comfortable with the little simple blessing of physical contact, but now was not the time. _Later. _"Everything's supposed to be perfect. But if every day is exactly the same—is it really all that perfect?" Her brown eyes were bright, filled with the light stars of the Asgardian sky she looked out across. She had become a rather pretty thing, for a mortal. "If we do not continue to live and grow and change? That sounds... more hellish, to me."

"Such a conception of the afterlife may have been our fault," Loki said, his lips twitching in amusement. "Or at least, we did not discourage it. Told your people of our Valhalla, that we'd steal some of their souls away when they found themselves poked too full of holes to keep on living. Valhalla! Where you never stop drinking until the day you get to die again, a place for souls to be stored lest they disintegrate and may not longer be _useful _to the Allfather's designs." He smiled again. "Millions of your people have thrown away their lives for the promise of such an afterlife. Crucifixions of saints, loyal soldiers who die simply so others can die _later_, suicides of those who wish for something more, all that. How does it feel, knowing that so much of your kind lives only with the intention to die well?"

Hermione grimaced. "Don't take _all_ the credit. We humans can do a perfectly good job of coming up with psychophilosophically unhealthy cosmologies all on our lonesome. The Elysium Fields don't sound all that great to me either."

Loki looked over at her slyly. Oh, he had _missed _this! "If you'd like me to shed some insight on the nature of your Olympians—"

Hermione cut him off with a laugh, open and smiling. It was... good, to see her happy, losing something of that air of wretchedness she had born but a few hours earlier. "Never mind that. Let me figure Asgard out before I tackle other pantheons. What can you tell me about the planetoid Asgard is on? I mean, it's not even a proper sphere, I don't understand how it's _stable, _it doesn't seem to sit at a Lagrangian point or anything..."

And so it went; they moved from the window and kept on walking, ever onwards. Hermione was wide eyed in a sort of shock from her abrupt uprooting from that infertile place she had been failing to properly flower in, a transplant dangling from his arm in a state of helpless curiosity about her new surroundings. He'd certainly care for her as best he could during this delicate time of transition, though he had little choice in the matter if he didn't want to waste another few centuries putting the pieces carefully together. Oh, and to think, he was so _close... _

Still, despite her newfound laughter, she had lost something of that delightful boldness of hers; she looked tired, her face crinkling up with new lines when she smiled like crumpled silk. How quickly mortals aged. If the Odinsleep lasted longer than it was supposed to, perhaps like it had in the days of wars when he was constantly draining himself in the defense of Asgard, Loki may have to set her on the path to immortality himself and trust Father to understand his decision afterward.

**Father**—

He shut the thought off as quickly as it came. Later. Time enough for such things later, _later. _Right now he could not allow himself to think of such things, not unless there was something nearby he could make _scream. _

Hermione was here, and more pressingly _now. _She was currently in the prime of her magic, from what he knew of human development, and now had a wary sharpness to her like a folded switchblade. Loki had not left her weak those years ago, certainly, even by his own people's standards, but now he wondered if this girl who had grown up when he wasn't looking might now prove a challenge even for him in combat. He itched to spar with her, to throw himself at her in a whirl of vicious blows and curses just to see how she would respond, but he didn't think that would do much for her nerves at the moment. Minimally she'd prove a more interesting opponent than the Warriors Three and other Asgardians; even in that scant two years of training she had become delectably wily in her ways. It wasn't raw power, but rather how she honed what she had. Even the short knife may prove just as deadly as a hammer when stuck between the ribs while the bigger man was still swinging.

She had obviously been practicing her wandless, wordless spellwork while he had been away, though her wand still fell naturally into her hands whenever she wanted work any magic. He couldn't say he much liked the idea of depending on a little stick, or anything external to himself for that matter... but anything was better than that ridiculous hammer, or those great swords Heimdall and his like lugged about. Tools of the trade, he tried to think of them as, augmenting existing abilities instead of entirely taking the place of them. Perhaps he'd feel differently, once Gungnir was in his hands.

He sighed, trying to be patient with himself. All things in time.

Even time itself, if he had his way with Hermione.

Whenever he paused before he answered, whenever he threatened to fall into his thoughts—there she was, a light touch to his shoulder, a rephrased question, some new and small and marvelous little gesture. Loki had a serious soul, but—those _smiles, _despite the whole weight of the Nine Realms having settled down on his shoulders, those smiles of hers made him feel inexplicably lighter. He had her loyalty, if not her trust. What a rare and lovely thing—and what a fool Thor was, to fail to recognize what gifts his friends had thrown at his feet. Loyalty was a thing that Loki could never, _ever _take for granted. No one had ever been loyal to him before. Not like... not like this.

Despite the new coolness to her temperament Hermione was still warm beneath it all, merely draped in a veil of frost as if she had been left out overnight by accident. He had forgotten how much he had missed her heatedness in their time apart; he watched himself as if from a distance as his face would go lax and spill whatever occurred to him into her presence, smiles and scornful sneers intermingling in a wonderfully freeing fashion.

Oh, leaving her behind to rot amongst her own kind had been _awful_. He could have some semblance to honesty around her at least, he only had to omit _some_ bits of the truth, the full glory of his plans. Here on Asgard he had to lie all the time about what he truly intended even though—for all that the bards may sing of the maliciousness of the Liesmith—he actually hated the taste of lies in his mouth. The necessity of a lie meant that he had failed to see the way around its telling, had tripped himself up with inconvenient truths and now needed to stumble his way out of trouble like a child.

He struggled to keep his breathing even. Though as he had found out not very long ago, he had been lied to for a _very _long time, in a fashion so fundamental that even he wouldn't have dreamed up such a falsehood.

He looked over at Hermione, who was happily speculating out loud about how to restructure language trees given the new etymology presented by the influence Asgard must have had on Indo-European languages. Her Midgadian garments were ill fitting and unflattering, but the life in her eyes seemed to outshine it all. What a strangely lovely creature, how... how curiously comforting he found her.

He hadn't thought of how to tell her yet, about how Mother and Father weren't really quite... _that_. His parents. He hadn't even had proper time to process it himself, other than to run off to Midgard after the confrontation with Father to see his... his _not_-brother for himself, to look upon Thor's face and fully see that there was nothing similar between them, just as Loki had noted a thousand times before in his childhood, how all the times when he had pleaded with Mother and Father if there had been some sort of mistake and Thor had gotten the wrong brother they had always lied to him, that the whispers that had worked their way up from the piss-drinking prophets on Midgard were true, that he was different, that he was evil, a monster, a—

He took a deep, shuddering breath. Oh yes. They had all lied to him in a deep way indeed. What a family they made. Odin Allfather, who was a poor father indeed, always lording silently from his throne; Frigga, a mother who knew all futures and wouldn't do a damn thing to ease present pain; and of course Thor, an oaf of a brother who would just as quickly kill everyone at a wedding as crash it for its mead. That Loki wasn't of their blood was almost sickly reassuring—except that he was joten, synonymous with all that he had been taught to hate in his childhood.

So many memories. He found himself closing his eyes. The words trailed after him out of the past, too-real ghosts, Thor punching the air crying out, _When I'm king, I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all! _while Father looked down at them both and only smiled and didn't quite disagree with the sentiment. How many times had such a scene been replicated and reproduced in the stage of court life? How often had he roared his approval, right next to Thor and all the others, while the Allfather looked on and couldn't even smile but for the irony of it all?

Hermione touched his shoulder and asked something of him, if he was alright or some such. He threw out something vaguely reassuring and she went back to happily babbling away about some theory she had or another. Oh, at least she _tried. _

The possibilities were frankly frightening. What if Thor learned of Loki's heritage, and took to the throne during the Odinsleep? It'd be Loki exiled then, not to the soft excess of Midgard but to Jotenheim where Asgardian princelings would make for excellent target practice to ready for whatever oncoming war Thor would inevitably start. That is, of course, if Thor didn't decide to end Loki himself. Perhaps the oaf would even accidentally puzzle out that joten had brought in fellow joten to despoil his _big day, _putting two and two together in a way so obvious as to be absurd. Or, perhaps someone in court would whisper of the Ragnorak prophecies in his ear, that Loki would be the one to lead the monsters to conquer Asgard and Thor would imprison his not-brother instead to delay what half the court thought inevitable and the other half thought impossible for a scrawny little false princeling that no one had ever thought much of. Would they put him down at the roots of their world with snake venom dripping into his mouth, just as the Midgardians had gleefully predicted? Or would they manage some small amount creativity and come up with something suitable all on their own and not rely on histrionic prophecies of mortal kind?

Loki pinched his brow. Oh, to be a prince. To think that some envied him his royal status. He was heir to two thrones, but to claim one would be to lose the other, and he had a slippery grasp on each. Asgard made his eyes ache with the memory of the stagnation of a thousand years, a childhood that refused to end. Bitter indeed, but it was the home he had. More so than Jotunheim, also in a state of stagnation but peopled by _monsters _and so it could hardly count.

To take that throne would be to count himself amongst them and... _that_...

Loki didn't think it beneath himself to admit that he was a touch overwhelmed. Things happened slowly in Asgard, the æsir a people who lived as long as they felt the desire to reach for the golden apples at the feast hall. The pace of this place had always felt too slow for Loki's taste, truth be told, hence his grudging involvement in Thor's adventures and his own independent trips to Midgard. Still, so much excitement, and all at once—an identity crisis, a war between his _fathers_, a regretfully well liked brother in exile, and the key to completely unrelated plans all coming together at once?

Overwhelmed indeed. For the first time in centuries, Loki could feel panic bubbling up, just beneath the surface, like hot embers buried long-cold ash.

He would have to take one thing at a time. Isolate the issues and handle them independently of each other. Divide and conquer, one of Midgard's better sayings went.

Loki stopped them outside Father's room at the pinnacle of the palace. And here, the first of many tasks set before him. "It believe it customary," he said quietly, "to meet the parents."

Hermione, wide-eyed, nodded. Though the irony of his statement might sting shortly, her sweetness thrilled him even now. It was much more satisfying to be half-loved, half-hated by someone with a mind of their own than to be adored by some thoughtless creature who wanted to give themselves up to you entirely.

All the better, given those pearls that glinted at her ear like a row of promises, sweeter than anything lovers could ever whisper there. Two of them were Hallows that she had taken for herself: already she had quite the hold over Death, even if she wasn't quite aware of it yet. It was all so close he could _taste_ it, true immortality, not this thing that required him to suckle at golden apples.

He could rest when it was all done and over. Secure his kingship, craft his queen. These things first.

Loki opened the door. Mother, of course, looked up in delight from where she sat at Father's side. "Loki!" she cried out, clearly having missed his presence during his little outing, "I have been waiting for you, I could not see where you had gone, and—" She stopped herself when she noticed Hermione, and her face turned uncertain, though not unhappy. "I have been expecting you," she continued after a moment, "though we have not yet been introduced."

Hermione flushed, and inclined her head—Loki would have to sit with her and teach her some court formalities soon, though for now perhaps her manners (or lack thereof) might be viewed as endearing. "I am Hermione Granger of Midgard, a guest of your son." She flushed a bit more, probably remembering Mother's _other _son, left behind in the desert to die like some mortal peasant. "Loki's guest, that is."

Mother looked between them, perplexed but not obviously displeased. "Forgive my manners; I am always a bit anxious while my husband sleeps, and my sight scattered. I am Frigga Fjörgynndottir." She smiled obliging. "As you already seem to know."

Mother. As if she knew everything, like Hermione's own tendency to do the same herself. But Mother's gift of prophecy was not _so _precise. The thought rankled him, like a bruise. They all thought they knew _better_...

Loki couldn't avoid it any longer; he cast his gaze onto the bed and did his best not to flinch and look away again. Father looked tired even in sleep; his exhaustion had been apparent even down in the Armory as Loki had shouted him down like a petty child throwing a tantrum. _His _child. Whether they had the same blood or no, still, Odin was still somehow _Father _in his head. An old man and a fool, Thor had called him, perhaps the aptest thing to ever have come out of his brother's mouth. But still... still...

Something hot curled in his stomach, as if a little tongue of lava had slipped inside to taste how a lifetime's worth of lies paired with ill-favored love. He swallowed it down as best he could. _Not now. _Not while Hermione could see any spite that might slip onto his face. Oh, it _burned, _and how he wanted to _break_ all around him!

Not that she would have noticed such a thing. No. She was a curious creature and here was one of the greatest curiosities of them all: her gaze was firmly fixated on the Allfather. "The Odinsleep?" she asked, her voice properly awed.

Mother nodded. "Yes." She looked over towards Loki and there was something like a smile drifting through her gray eyes. "My son has told you much of his home."

_'My' son? 'His' home?_ For a bitter moment Loki was glad he had not inherited his adopted family's idea of subtlety.

Hermione nodded, apparently missing the little pang on Loki's face. She had probably read every version of every myth on the subject available on that grubby planet of hers. "Somewhat, though I won't pretend to understand. Yet." She hesitated, then asked, "I know we haven't been formerly introduced, but—may I see for myself? With my magic, I mean. I have spells that let me examine magical phenomena like this." A nervous smile. "My day job, see."

Mother looked surprised—Hermione _definitely_ was not acting like any of the court ladies, who tended to do a lot more simpering before making any requests—but nodded her assent. While Mother could see the future, her glimpses were garbled, and certainly didn't provide insights into the finer points of personality. "It would do no harm," she said at last, looking on curiously.

Loki had done some prodding of his own at the magic underpinning the Odinsleep, part of the century-long study of healing he had done in an attempt to perhaps render the Odinsleep obsolete somehow and curry Father's favor. Narcolepsy was such an inconvenient weakness to have, a too-predictable vulnerability to them all, but his study had come to naught. The look in Father's sad single eye as Loki admitted his failure had burned him to the core: _Do not attempt to understand_, Father had said forbiddingly, _Hlidskjalf__ is beyond the limits of your magic. _That Mother allowed Hermione to pick at Father was, minimally, a testament to how harmless most thought magic on Asgard when it wasn't some shiny artifact from their long ago golden age.

He and Hermione were far from harmless, however. The thought rose up, hot and bright in his head. Oh no. They'd show them all what true power was. Perhaps Mother had even already seen it come to pass; perhaps that's why she smiled so at Hermione.

Why was Odin Allfather, why Frigga prophetic, why Heimdall all-seeing? So few of the æsir had such cosmologically all-encompassing gifts; why them, and why not Thor, why not Loki himself? He felt weak and dishonored even though he was now heir. He did not understand their power, though he had learned to subvert them somewhat over the years. With Hermione's help...

He allowed himself some small thread of hope as Hermione stepped forward towards the veil that hung over Father, holding her wand out. The bright curiosity that had first drawn him to her was now glimmering like dawn gold in the pools of her eyes, reflecting the protective veil of the Odinsleep. Good. He had been worried he had stumbled into her too late to save all those lovely bits she had had about her in her youth. It'd be a shame to have to find someone else. Imagine the trouble explaining _another_ mortal to Heimdall, whenever he did manage to find one that fit his requirements half so well. "I'm only going to look," Hermione said, her voice excited, "do an analysis of sorts, but please tell me if me poking around triggers anything on accident. I'm still not too familiar with your sort's magic."

Mother nodded again, watching Hermione with a curiosity of her own. They were similar creatures, soft with kindness, though while Mother presented a sort of austere warmth as prompted by the Allfather's own aloofness, Hermione's was sharper, sweeter, the difference between high summer and and the tumult of spring.

Oh, they would get along famously, once Hermione finally found it herself to be at ease here. This would make things _much_ easier. If Hermione thought herself at home, then it wouldn't take more than a year of her time, maybe two, to win her to the point that perhaps she would stay and hear out his other thoughts...

Loki watched intently as Hermione concentrated over the body of Father. How small she seemed, a little creature silhouetted against the immensity of the bed and the Allfather upon it, yet just as fierce as any warrior as she whispered her witching words. Power radiated off of her like a wave of heat, but he could also feel it thrumming from the pearls at her ear. Oh, the wand she had in her hand was not the one that was _hers, _though, not truly. And the knife she still wore, sweet little Famine at her side that could sever even the soul of a god and send it sailing on towards Nifleheim, and a stone at her ear that could call back the dead from beyond Gjallarbrú... all she needed was a lovely cloak about her shoulders and—

Well.

Perhaps things could, for once, proceed according to plan; perhaps he'd have that happy ending that Mother had always promised him, from when she would bounce him at her knee as a boy to when he was a prince at her side.

He couldn't keep the smile off his face as he watched Hermione, lost as she was in learning the magic of the Allfather, Yggdrasil, all the ways in which the Nine Realms connected. Her brown hair, a wild mass of curls, seemed to catch the golden light of Odin's veil and become an amber halo around her head. _Angelic, _as Midgardians would say, caught up in her sacred science. Such a terribly useful creature she was quickly becoming.

To be honest, he had hoped Hermione would get sick of her own people sooner, but he supposed it was her very fortitude that had allowed him to mold her slowly over time, the finest of clays between his fingers. Oh, she wasn't quite there yet, but give another few years... Loki could see the threads of her magic spread over Father like a thousand little hands, a touch so soft that it didn't even cause the slightest alarm. Hermione reveled in life, as it was meant to be lived; who could be better to be a new avatar for Death? It would certainly make everything else much easier for him.

But Mother was watching him, and he could not seem too entranced by his pet. She'd think it infatuation, then, and that wasn't the impression he needed to sketch out for her if Hermione was to be accepted at court. Mother was always so easy to read: there was only ever kindness, deeper than the cold black of space, extending right out to the heat death of the universe trillions of years away. Mother was gifted with little gasping visions of the future, but could not speak a word of what she saw, nor act on the terrible truths in her head. It had always confused him as a child when he had realized the full weight of her gift why she was not a bitter thing, knowing all of the injustices that would happen past, present and future and being incapable to correct any of them. "I do as I will do," she'd say with such a strange sense of solidity, "and nothing more, and nothing less."

For all the warmth of such assurances her confidence had been a cold comfort to the bullying he had received, the big black bruises Thor would raise on his shoulder when Loki pointed out that his brother was about to do something profoundly stupid, or the cool disregard of the court at the younger of the two Odinsons who preferred books of sorcery to a spear or sword. If Mother knew the future, then she must have known of the icy torture it had been for him those long centuries on Asgard, friendless and alone except for the buffoonery of his brother and the antics of Asgardians who stagnated in their arrogance. Yet her interventions were few, and he could not make sense of how she could possibly let so much stand as it was.

Loki didn't have Mother's faith in endings, not when the meantime was so mean spirited. Loki didn't want to wait. Loki would make things right, but right _now_; if that meant bringing Hermione to Asgard, so be it; if it meant keeping Thor on Midgard so his temper tantrums wouldn't knock over any more of his chess pieces, so be it too.

Smiles did no one any good if smiling was all one would ever do. Kindness was a lovely thing, but it could not be the only thing. Not if things were to be made _better._

When Hermione finally stepped back from the Allfather, Mother smiled at her. "And what do you see, Hermione of Midgard?"

Hermione turned to face them both, her face bright. "It's—fascinating, really. _Odinsleep _really is an appropriate term." Seeing Mother's confused, but kindly look, she ploughed on. "See, when all creatures sleep, it—it isn't a single state of consciousness, but rather fluctuates between varying sorts of activity in different parts of the brain. It heals, it processes, it organizes, it does all of the housekeeping that the mind needs to function for the next day. But the Odinsleep—" Hermione pursed her lips. "It's _deeper_. I can't grasp the entirety of it without more time but there are strands of his magic extending far beyond this room, and I'd guess to most of your Nine Realms—he's tied into the ley lines of your whole _system_, and when he sleeps, his brain is quite literally taking it all in for some repair work. The Odinsleep restores those connections. It restores whole _worlds._" She looked on with something close to awe. "We've been able to work out why the ley lines lay the way they do on Earth, based on the mineral composition of the underlying crust and so forth, but we hadn't figured out the origin of it, or what kept them stable. And now, here it is—right here before me." She caught herself and blushed a bit, lacing her hands together before her. "His formal title makes a bit more sense now, I suppose I'm saying. _Allfather _and such. I'm sorry if that didn't make much sense. It'll take me some time to find the words for it."

_You'll have time enough, little lioness_. She was just starting to crackle back to life; how bright she had burned on Midgard, but how brighter still she'd be with the mortality drained from her and the golden apples of the sun burning in her veins and the dark Veil of death lifted from her future... surely, a more fitting companion for a king than even starforged Mjölnir.

"You are insightful, little one." Mother smiled again, meeting Hermione's gaze steadily, regally. "You honor my son with your grace."

Hermione flushed a bit more, looking down at her feet and frowning. "But—there is one other thing." She looked over at Loki, biting her lip. His body seemed to twist unpleasantly from beneath him. Ah. This. "Odin—he is not Loki's father.." She swallowed. "Or you his mother. I'm no expert in Asgardian bodies, but your signatures are simply too different from each other. Like, not-even-the-same-number-of-chromosomes different.. I'm not missing something obvious, am I? I mean, I don't know _where _Odin's magic comes from, so much of it seems to be channeled from elsewhere, yours does as well, but..."

Hermione was studying Loki for a reaction and he gave her one, a frown of his own but nothing too troubled. He was still sorting out his thoughts, of course, and that he was shaken was like calling a hurricane a bit of a summer squall... but for now it would be best to put on only a small show. Let her understand this little tender spot in him, see it for herself; she'd get some pleasure in seeing him vulnerable, think herself a friend beyond measure to be allowed so close. She could do with the reassurance. Maybe he could too. He could allow that. It would be an... acceptable weakness.

Mother's eyes softened and Hermione eventually looked back over at the Queen. "We are his parents," she murmured, looking deep into Hermione's eyes. "We found him, weaned him, raised him, loved him as our own as best we could. Even his appearance—he is our son by unconscious choice." Mother smiled tenderly. Loki forced himself to look at her, still half-desperate to find a lie but unable to see anything other than kindness, the truest sort he'd ever see besides in the other woman in the room. He felt a creeping dizziness, a warmth threatened to overwhelm him like he was ill. Ah, to be loved, and to be lied to, out of that place of love. It was in Hermione's eyes, too, mixed comprehension and care. _Monster_ he was, but was it not more monstrous to love a monster, to tempt it with a thing it could never truly return?

And Mother continued on, careless of the cruelty of her kindness. "When Odin, Allfather, first held you, when he first looked into your eyes, your skin—it turned from joten blue to pink, like any of the æsir. You were our son even then, our darling shapeshifter who shifted his skin and so it has stayed. You always have been our son, and always will be, as you are now." Her eyes were filled with quiet prophetic knowledge but Loki knew now that prophecy was not always quite as people interpreted it. She may know, but she did not necessarily understand. She yearned for a kinder truth, as all people do, and so leaned into it as one might press against stained glass to see the outside.

_It fits a god of lies to start so young_, he thought bitterly, but even such sourness couldn't quite sustain itself. He couldn't be mad at Mother. She was always so genuine in her love, even if she was a fool like the rest of his sorry little family. Such softened stories she told herself, how _palatable_ they were. "I asked you, earlier, why you lied to me," Loki slipped in, his voice quiet; it was the first thing he had said since entering. "Would it not have been better to simply accept that I was different, instead of pretending that I was the same?"

_You were the ones who taught me to lie. I may be joten but at least I can say I am no liar by blood. _

"You always wanted to do just as Thor did," Mother replied, her voice soft and steady. "But when you asked to learn magic, we found you the finest sorcerers in the Nine Realms to tutor you—Amora and others, who would come to Asgard from their own far-off realms just so that we might see you flower. Our kind have little innate magic, and we wished to foster these skills as best we could in you. Once you had learned all you could from them, we allowed you your trips to Midgard to learn from the magicians there. We never spoke ill of your learning."

"But you never spoke ill of those who did," Loki said, letting the bitterness now bite sharply into the air between them. "Our sorcerers are jesters and jokers, court fools who could scarcely even fool me. That or those who tinker with amorous tinctures and call it their trade. In Midgard, at least, there are some circles in which magic is valued in and of itself, even though they are mere _mortals _and my time spent amongst them became a mockery as well." His mouth twisted. "And even on Midgard, many of those that practiced magic were _murdered_ by those that didn't. In Hermione's tongue they even have a phrase now, 'witch hunt', to refer to unjust persecution, even now still used without a mote of irony amongst the greater portion of their race. Those who practice magic on Midgard still fear to show themselves to the rest of the world, lest they be tortured and torn apart by those who do not suffer witching ways, considering it _wicked _by nature_. _I think her kind are wise, if only for that." Loki's fists clenched. His eyes felt hot, his cheeks burned; he felt like a child. "You did nothing to quiet our court when they whispered behind my back and called me a trickster and a liar."

"You never asked me to."

Loki closed his eyes with the pain swelling up like the sea around him and _oh_, his eyes were burning from the salt suddenly in them. "I shouldn't have had to," he said heatedly after a few moments, when the sea had receded and he could think again. It was the old childish knot, left in a tangle that had only tightened over the years. "I wanted you to understand. That's all I had wanted. That's all I have ever wanted."

Hermione probably had something warm and fuzzy crawling up her navel by now: _But __I__ understand __you! _her eyes seemed to cry out with the small little pleasure at being wanted. Predictable, but let her feel desired, let _someone_ feel like they were wanted around here. He'd spill out this small secret spot in his heart like flushing an abscess, just for her. It was useful to be loved by a queen, but it felt better yet to be loved by a friend. Particularly _useful_ friends. Emotion tightened his throat at this flickering self awareness and he felt like he was suffocating.

"Your father has placed you in the line of succession," Mother rattled on. Was she still talking? As if anything she could say right now mattered. She knew the future already. Let him be damned to it in peace. He felt tired suddenly, his thoughts falling apart in his head even as he tried to think through them. "As he sleeps you sit on his throne and wield Gungnir and sit upon Hliðskjálf itself. Surely this means something: it is the highest trust to give, and he gave it to _you_."

"Over Thor." He blurted it out like one might lance a wound.

Mother's eyes were pained for a moment, one acutely precious to Loki, and she nodded her head. "Over Thor," she agreed, and leaned forward and took one of his hands. It was a rare sign of physical affection from her, or anyone in this fine little family of theirs. Everyone had always treated him as if he were to be held from a distance, if at all, and this was no different. It had always seemed that they had feared he'd slip a knife between their ribs. They were right; how could he not yearn to, after they suspected it of him for so very long? But her hand was warm, and he was cold, and he took with a gladness that made guilt swim in his eyes. "You'll never stop being our son," she murmured, catching him by the eyes.

Her touch was soft yet limp. It was supposed to be comforting, but it only served to highlight the differences between them: now he knew why everyone had always seemed to be so hot blooded in Asgard, they were æsir, of course their hands would always be _warm _compared to one born in the cold of Jotenheim. One of a thousand questions he had failed to ask, when he was a child and intellectual curiosity was still tolerated, why he could run in the snow without furs and Thor had to bundle up like a bear, why the healers and lovers alike had always clucked over his skin that they never could seem to warm, why he had so hated the summer heat even though he always felt so cold, cold, _cold _even though he never numbed, but oh, how it would have been better than to feel such things—

He closed his eyes. No one wanted a scholar for a son, let alone for a prince. Even the court sorcerers Father had found for him had been reluctant to encourage his pursuit to the exclusion of martial arts. Mother wouldn't answer his questions because she could not speak of the future that lay in her head, and Father, Father rarely said a word to him except to give a lesson in anything _other _than how his own magic worked, a sort of grunting monosyllabic communication entirely not suited to a king, _Yes, no, good, bad, Thor, Loki..._

He closed his eyes again. He wanted to sleep. Abruptly, the thought flashed into his head, to teleport away, following the secret roots of Yggdrasil and to take Hermione to their little chairs in their library, his plots years yet into the future and she still a soft warm little child that only wanted to be kind and he didn't always have to be clever or cruel, they could just be...

Well.

They could just _be._

Cruel as it was, he knew: that could never be the case either. Neither of them were creatures for contentedness.

He could hear Hermione moving; apparently she had seen fit to give him a _hug_, of all things, her arms wrapping around him from the side, awkward if well intentioned like everyone else in this room. "But don't you be asking me to call you _your grace_," she whispered into his ear, and he couldn't help but chuckle a bit at that. The court wasn't going to know what to think of such an improprietous woman, who roared like a lion instead of simpering like a mouse. Sif still received quite a bit of grief for not wearing dresses around the court; Asgard was slow to change, and Hermione was nothing if not quick. Oh, she'd want to change many things about her new home, and that was precisely was Asgard needed, something hot and fierce to stab it out of stagnation.

And—what he needed. He leaned into her touch, absently wishing he was not wearing so much armor so that he could better feel her heat. For all his bitterness he could feel a hunger rising up in him at her touch. He had uncomfortably accepted his longing for companionship a long time ago, but at least with her it didn't seem like... such a weakness, and if it was, the exploitation of it would at least be a sweeter sorrow than others he had suffered.

But not now. _No. _He had gotten what he had wanted out of Mother: affirmation that she would stand behind him on the throne, and not try to seek Thor out to replace him on it. Whatever it was that she saw with those infuriatingly kind gray eyes, the future did not involve intervention from her. "Gungnir—is it still here?"

Mother nodded, leaning down and taking it out from—of all places—under the great bed she and Father shared. "It only awaits the hand of its king," she murmured, demure. Gungnir gleamed bright gold by the veil of the Odinsleep. He had left it here before teleporting headlong into Midgard, disbelieving, needing so desperately to see his false brother _fail_, needing to see that the Allfather would allow such a thing of his favorite.

Oh, and it had been so sweet, the sweetest wine he had ever supped upon, but now it was souring in his stomach. That bit of fun with the coronation had been like kicking a dumb dog, twisting Thor's mood into belligerent impulse, but in his wildest dreams he hadn't thought Odin would actually exile his firstborn—and who Loki now knew to be his only _true_born. Such fantasy, he had had to see it for himself, _taste_ it in the dust of the desert that had swallowed his dear brother up, feast upon it until he was gorged with a vindicated vengeance.

What a peculiar ecstasy, to have all that you ever wanted. The future stretched before him in an endless plain of possibility, no braggart of a brother to drag him through the briars. He wouldn't suffer this horizon lost as the world turned ceaselessly under him. This time the glory was _his_, and he would chase it down. He would keep this. All of it. All of these mad dreams that ran in his blood as delirium, he'd bring them to life or he'd be damned at their death. It was all here, the pieces needing only proper assembly: Hermione at his side, the trust of Father, the love of Mother... heir of Asgard, he could take a treasure of his own from the vault and throw down the Gauntlet in challenge, a roar to the whole wide world that he was **Loki, **_chosen _heir of the Allfather, and he would not be stopped in acquiring what was his.

The universe seemed like such a small step after that.

If lies made for a better world? He'd spin them like the spider he was and what lovely webs there'd be, holding it all together. Any dishonor in the telling of lies were belied in turn by the ends he'd weave.

Thor, of course, would need to stay on Midgard, but that would be easy to arrange. Tell him something to strike him deeply, wound him such that he'd never wish to move against Loki ever again. The trick would be to keep from smiling when he broke his brother's heart. Loki could feel a small little needling sliver of affection as one might have for a pet, but Loki had little patience for creatures that could not take care of themselves. A thousand years of tending to his brother's idiocies had been quite enough.

His father by blood would have to die, of course; that side would have to be disinherited forcefully, fatally, in order to prove himself a 'son' of Odin in the eyes of the few who knew his true parentage. Hermione would squirm at the gesture but find it morally sound after some sleepless nights. Father, the father of his sorry spirit if not of his flesh, would think it a worthy battle only if it could be claimed in self defense... but such a thing could be easily crafted. Mother would smile, as she always did. The court would hear about the regicide and think it grand, perhaps put their hands together and make some noise at a feast and doubt him less for such a deed—as heir, he needed to be loved—but they wouldn't know why it was such a big deal.

Loki looked like an æsir, and would remain that way. A convenient skin for the tasks at hand. He could dwell on the... interesting existential implications later. Blue wasn't really his color anyway. No—it was a brilliant shade of envy green, and he wore it proudly as a cloak about him. Let him be jealous until there was nothing left to be jealous of. He had been æsir for a thousand years, and casting aside that heritage would leave him stripped to bones and blood and nothing to keep him warm in the cold of Jotunheim. He craved the warmth, he always had, the warmth of fires, of flesh, of acceptance, of _love, _and now he knew a little of why.

Killing Laufey would be a clever little twist indeed. It would take some—some more tangling about with half-truths, perhaps, and with Hermione now poking her head about he'd have to be more careful than he had initially been planning. The Bifrost allowed him to save his strength, as slipping in the cracks between worlds created by Yggdrasil's creeping roots without its assistance while also hiding from Heimdall could leave him dangerously tired. Perhaps this was good, though; Heimdall was a suspicious soldier, and Loki didn't want to waste the time to assuage the gatekeeper's worries anyway.

Perhaps in bringing an end to Laufey he could also bring an end to Jotunheim itself while he was at it, a total refutation of the monsters that lurked in the shadow of his past, the monster in his very blood. It'd be an easy blow. He could make it look like war, but a wise one. Father would be proud.

He looked to Hermione. "I have not yet welcomed you to Asgard as its king," he said, taking Gungnir from Mother. No wonder wizards liked their wands: it was not a source of power in and of itself, but rather channeled all that Odin had, right from his body into Loki's hands. His control was... crude, for now, and it would take time to learn to wield another's power, but time enough he had... time that need not be wasted in the halls of mortals, now that Asgard could finally be a home to him. Tothem. _To us_.

Hermione didn't say anything, only took his hand and squeezed it. There were doubts in her. Delightful. He'd answer them with a smile, as he always did. Staying a step ahead of her was such fun, this dance. He'd step so surely that none would know it to be the caper of a king to come.

**A/N:**

Revised 3/6/13.

Well. Um. Loki. Whatcha all thinking about him now? Still in character? I figured his head would be full of many things at this point, and in a very different place than when we saw him last, but I'm worried that I made it too jumbled up with thoughts to be coherent to the reader. I've had similar issues with writing previous chapters, but I'm hoping I got the sense of increasing emotional instability a little bit better this time. A sense of embers in the ashes, waiting to catch.

I'm having a hard time balancing revelations about his plottsome self across the entirety of Aphelion; I want to reveal _some _things, but not so much that I don't have more balls to drop on y'all later on. Does this dissipate some tension while still building more, while also not feeling too tiresome with the continuing questions? Do tell.

Frigga: I'm trying to bring in more aspects of Norse mythology in, and blending that in with the scraps we get from Thor resulted in this. Did she seem like an interesting character? I'll be exploring her and others in more depth in the upcoming chapters, but was this an adequate introduction?


	12. A Dream Within A Dream

**A Dream Within A Dream**

**March 23rd, 2010**

Hermione _hated_ just standing there, the queen staring at her from Odin's side and a servant fiddling with her measurements, Loki having swept off to attend to some kingly duty or another. "I'm no good as a doll," Hermione blurted out awkwardly. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful for your hospitality, but I really... well, I don't do dresses. Not anymore anyway."

Frigga—_no formal titles between family_, the queen had demured in a way that made Hermione wonder at how many futures she saw in those cloudy eyes—had insisted on having her guest attired in the Asgardian fashion. Hermione, admittedly a bit self conscious in a caridgan still dusty from another planet's desert, had agreed. Perhaps a mistake; perhaps she wasn't in a rush, but fashion really didn't seem like it should be her first priority.

Whereas Loki's constant smiling was cool as cream, Frigga's felt like warm honeyed milk. Hermione felt very silly again, like the little girl she was compared to these ancient creatures. _To think, _she thought, _I am considered mature for my own species. _"You have far too much of a warrior in you for that," the queen agreed amiably. She waved a hand and the servant scuttled off. "I asked after the Lady Sif's old things; she's taller than you, now, but once she had much the same build; it should fit after only a few small modifications. Her garb is—similar to what you wear on Midgard." Her eyes twinkled. "At least insofar that the Lady Sif does not 'do' dresses either."

Dresses. They were talking about _dresses. _Hermione felt a bit like screaming and a bit like sighing. She was exhausted and so—to be perfectly honest—the small talk was oddly relaxing, but at the same time she had very little idea of what was going on and that still rather bothered her. It was hard to get any details out of anyone here, however: the royal family didn't seem accustomed to answering to anyone, let alone a nosy mortal from Midgard.

There was certainly plenty to be curious about. Loki was apparently a _frost giant_, which didn't make much sense to Hermione—how had he been unaware of this, how had it been hidden from him for so long?—but she hadn't gotten a chance to ask him more about that. Not when he was a puddle of self pity that only straightened itself out so that it could go on to deal with what was apparently a _war. _From what little she had been able to glean from Frigga so far, apparently some frost giants—Loki's own kind, as he was now all too aware of—had tried to steal a particularly powerful artifact out of Asgard's weapons vault during Thor's coronation as heir. In revenge, Thor had tried to take on the entirety of Jotunheim's court, almost killing himself, Loki and their companions in the process. Odin had rescued them, and subsequently banished Thor for his recklessness—leaving Loki as heir. Odin had then fallen into the Odinsleep, and with Frigga refusing to take on stewardship as she had during previous Odinsleeps, choosing to instead tend to her husband for some reason she wouldn't explain, Loki had ascended to the throne.

All in all, Hermione felt like she had stepped in halfway through season ten on a soap opera, and was struggling to make sense of it all.

For starters—how long had Loki himself known about his jotun heritage? Her eyes flickered over to Frigga, whose warm gray gaze felt like smooth river stones left out in the sun. Judging by his unbalanced state, she'd guess it had something to do with the little adventure to Jotunheim, but no one seemed quite willing to talk about it. It seemed like the sort of thing worth having a tête-à-tête about, though at the same time she wasn't going to push something so obviously sensitive until he indicated that he wasn't going to explode over it_. _Not when there was apparently an international crisis settled squarely on his shoulders.

She sighed. He just needed time, and as long as he didn't do anything too stupid, she'd have to content herself with waiting until the immediate crisis was past. Forcing the issue before he was ready wouldn't fix anything.

Subsequently, she wasn't sure whatto say to Frigga, now that they were alone, and it didn't help that Frigga didn't seem to need to say anything all. Hermione had questions, of course, _thousands _of them, but the fact that she was standing before two beings older than her own language had a sobering effect on how she spoke. The translation charm she had whittled for herself worked well enough, but that didn't mean she knew _how_ to talkto any of them. What topics were taboo, and which were OK by esoteric Asgardian etiquette? Hermione's hadn't a clue.

So dresses it was. "I—ah, I thank you for your thoughtfulness." She gestured down at her cardigan and khakis ruefully. "I don't exactly fit in as is."

"Not all of us are meant to slip into the shadows," Frigga replied, her voice grand. "Least of all the likes of you. But, I will gladly assist you in adjusting to life here on Asgard."

Right. Because everyone seemed to be assuming she'd suddenly be spending an eternity here—_especially _the apparently oracular queen. Wardrobe changes must be pretty important. At least Earth wasn't the only place with a tendency towards materialist cultures.

Hermione was abruptly reminded of her own family. They had never been particularly... understanding, and once she had gotten her Hogwarts letter she had rarely looked back. There were a few family vacations those first few years, but in later summers she took to spending all her time either at the Burrow or in Grimmauld Place—sneaking off, whenever she could, to spend time with Loki . Ostensibly she had avoided her Muggle family for safety reasons, and she _did_ love them, but they—did not really understand. Hadn't ever.

So... what good were they to her, then?

She had made the decision to disappear from their lives when she was 17, and would have stayed gone if Harry hadn't talked her into seeing them again once the War was over. Even if she had wanted to spend more time with them, being an Unspeakable was just as dangerous to her loved ones as any war. She hadn't seen them since: what a twisting little comfort it was, knowing that never returning was the best thing she could do for the ones she was obliged to love.

But maybe she wouldn't have to worry so much about danger here—even if the lack of understanding was still a rather distinct possibility. Frigga's eyes were gentle. _Mother_, Loki called her. "I had always wished to bear a daughter," she murmured, "but the stars do not have it so. Now, while I have one son gone, the other left and brought me back a daughter after all."

Hermione swallowed. Frigga was nice enough, but still—presumption apparently ran in the family, and that was enough to make her uncomfortable all on its lonesome. Besides—god or no, Hermione _hated _anything that smelled like prophecy, still spooking her after ten years as an Unspeakable. She had never been able to make sense of whatever it was that Loki was looking for in the library. More questions to ask. More things she didn't understand. More things she didn't _know. _How could she ever feel safe here? "I am not sure that I deserve such an honor," she said, speaking carefully.

"You are the friend of my son," Frigga said simply, ignoring Hermione's little bout of doubt. "We both know him better than he likes to think. We look into hearts, my dear, and we both know that his is—not _evil_, though some would call him so." Pain, in her smile. She seemed lost in time. How aware was Frigga of the present when she was always so tangled up in what would (or could?) come to pass? "Your heart, I see a bonfire that he leans towards to warm himself, but he closes his eyes and does not see that he does. He does not ask that of you, or of himself. He would ask you to take on all of the Nine Realms for him before he'd ask you to hold him. He does not ask. He never does. He's so difficult to touch—"

Frigga's calm broke a bit, just slightly but still Hermione's heart ached. Loki was difficult even as a grown, reserved man; she couldn't imagine the pain in watching him grow up alone but feeling unable to help him in the way he seemed to need. The wounds of immortals fester for hundreds of her years; human psychology scarcely seemed adequate to account for such time scales.

"You are but a candle, my dear. A little thing that peters out before a single night of our lives is done. The poets of Asgard have a saying for when they sing of friendships between your kind and ours: how brief the flame yet how bright it burns!" Frigga's gaze shifted down to look at her husband with something like sadness, her mouse-brown curls coiled around her head like a crown. "Some will dismiss mortals because how little you live, but we have all heard these ballads in our feast halls; it is good that Loki has listened. He only looks to his past and his future, never his present; he's scarcely even a king but Ragnarok weighs heavier than any crown upon his head." Her eyes were distant. Hernione shivered. Trelawney was one thing. Frigga... "He loves you, Hermione, in his own way, the only way he can. He'll carry your heart in his and never even guess at the burden of it, never complain, never confess." She looked back up at Hermione. "You wish to understand prophecy: I can do nothing but speak what you already know, and you can do nothing that you will not already do. This is our place in the way of things."

Hermione fiddled with the pearls at her ears, distinctly unsettled. She thought about Ragnarok, about the Muggle myths she had heard as a child about how Loki would destroy his home and family in the distant future; she thought about the mad glee in his eyes as he had watched his brother fail and she wondered how much of prophecy was self fulfilling. "I know," she said, though she knew she didn't, "but thank you for saying it anyway."

Frigga smiled. "And thank you for thanking me. It is not so bad, knowing the future, when one also counts all the little kindnesses included in it."

The servant came back sooner than Hermione would have guessed. Had Frigga set these things aside years ago for her, before there were even Grangers in England? The thought made Hermione feel faintly dizzy. In the servant's hands was a shimmer of forest green, warmer than the hue Loki seemed to love, and edged with a delicate tracery of copper. The fabric unfolded: a form-fitting, practical tunic and simple breeches, otherwise unembellished. A second servant came in with what looked to be soft leather boots for her feet.

Hermione stifled a giggle, despite herself. No socks. No underwear. No bra. The little differences between the British and the gods.

The servants seemed to be waiting for her to take the proffered items. Hermione did so, trying to look into their faces so she could thank them but their eyes were fixed to the floor. Such a queer place, everyone at a distance from one another. No wonder Loki seemed so starved for company. As soon as the clothing was in her hands they walked away quietly as they came.

Hermione looked down at the garments. "Should I—"

Frigga smiled. "My own chambers are, if you would prefer, but we of Asgard do not see shame in seeing the form of another of our sex, as I have heard your kind sometimes do."

Hermione nodded, and fought down her nervousness and stripped out of her clothes as quickly as she could. She felt dirty, sweaty, tired, and _evanesco _wasn't going to cut it. Perhaps she could inquire after the communal bathhouses while she was at it. Her body was—obviously mortal, she was sure, stretch marks and little sags where the years were just starting to creep up on her, but if everyone was as kind as Frigga perhaps it would not be so bad. Standing nude before an immortal queen and her sleeping king in a big empty room was not as uncomfortable as she might have guessed. Or maybe she just too tired to care. It had been a long day.

Still, she didn't take her time in shrugging on the new clothes. They were soft but also strong, like cashmere and leather in a single cloth. Nor did they restrict movement. From what she had heard of Sif, such a thing would certainly be necessary. Idly she wondered when she would meet other Asgardians. After she had slept, perhaps. Loki had told her much of his childhood companions, and not _quite _all of it was disparaging.

Loki had mentioned sparring earlier. Hermione wasn't all that good at martial arts beyond the very basic knife fighting Loki had taught her, but perhaps she could learn to use this body a little better for when magic failed her. Something else to learn. Besides, Asgardians seemed to delight in patronizing lesser beings: it seemed like an ideal way to get on their good side. She'd just have to make sure that they wouldn't break her on accident; even in Loki's more generous accounts they had hardly seemed very careful.

So many things to think about.

When she was done changing she smiled, wriggling her toes within their little leather caskets. Boots and no socks. Huh.

"You do not pine for home," Frigga said softly from her seat at Odin's side.

Hermione breathed in deeply, looking outside at the alien stars, as if all the diamonds of the Nine Realms had been taken and scattered across Asgard's sky in tribute. "No, she said eventually, "I really don't."

It didn't take much to be better than _home. _

**:i:**

It wasn't just the royal family: Asgardians in general, she decided quickly, had a taste for presumption that made her quite uncomfortable. No one had told her that, when she had tentatively requested a place to sleep, they would lead her off to _Loki's_ own chambers.

She stood in the foyer, feeling more than a little awkward. It wasn't immediately obvious that it was Loki's bedroom, of course. Loki didn't seem too keen on personalization, the whole room seeming much the same as the rest of the palace: great golden walls, a bed with a filagreed coverlet tucked neatly in, a massive hearth with a roaring hot fire, and wide windows that looked out onto those impossible stars shining as bright as day. It wasn't until she found herself on the receiving end of some familiar protective cantrips—snakes suddenly hissing at her heels, the same spell he had so loved to use on Viktor all those years ago—that the realization struck.

These were his rooms, perhaps, but it was not his _home. _Loki was not himself here. How could he be? His very rooms could not properly be his own, not when faceless, nameless servants could come and go so freely, and certainly not with Heimdall constantly looking over his shoulder to see what he was doing at any given moment. However warm the metal walls seemed as they flickered in the ever-present firelight, Asgard was still a cold place, particularly for those who did not find comfort in feasts.

She shivered, toes curling inside the soft leather of her new boots. Asgard did not seem like a good place to grow up in. No wonder Loki would tag along with Thor and the Warriors Three; at least it allowed him to get out of here. Add to this a mother who couldn't seem to give a straight answer and a father who would barely speak to him at all...

She thought back to the chair he had enchanted in the library, and the arch above it. The filagree in the walls of his room burned with magic in her vision, something that felt almost reminiscent of portkeys. He had spoken of her Apparition in terms of slipping through the roots of Yggdrasil, which she could interpret readily enough into tearing little doors in spacetime to walk through. Did the arch in the library lead to this very room? What other arches did he have, paths he had created in a desperate need to get out and _away_? How many little nests had he made for himself on other planets, other Realms? He had always seemed comparatively... content, in the library, like a cat that had finally found a sunny place to curl up where it wouldn't be disturbed. How much of his childhood had been running away from a place he couldn't seem to call home?

But even her mind was beginning to tire of turning, and she really _did _have to sleep. They had led her to Loki's rooms. Fine! She could sleep here. As much as she didn't much like the idea of being gossiped about in a court she hadn't even been acquainted with yet, she couldn't care less at the moment. She was tired, and she was going to sleep. If her world was going to turn upside down again in the near future, she might as well be well rested for it.

**:i:**

**March 24th, 2010**

"Did you know," Loki said, "that you have the most charming habit of drooling while you sleep?"

Hermione awoke with a start, sitting straight up and almost hitting Loki as she did so. He was sitting on the side of the bed_—his_ bed, staring at her intently.

She rubbed at her eyes, doing her best to banish the bleariness from them. "I do not!" she snapped, raking her hands through her hair to put it into some semblance of order. Still, she did a wandless _evanesco _of the silken pillowcase, just in case; she had hardly crawled into Loki's bed (which smelled intolerably wonderfully of _him_) being all that clean herself.

"I didn't know you were in the habit of destroying the evidence." Loki's eyes were dancing.

Hermione, for her part, did her best to get her feet—still in those marvelously comfortable leather boots—onto the floor. "Nor am I in the habit of sleeping in strange beds," she shot back.

Though she ached for a good cup of coffee, being woken up for the first time in a _very _long time by a handsome man certainly had a stimulating effect on her. She fought down her blush. And it certainly didn't help that there was a sort of softness on his face that she hadn't seen in... years. He had been full of manic, frenetic energy ever since she had stumbled into him at the crater, sometimes glittering there on the surface in his eyes but at other times buried beneath a still and stony face. No, now he seemed... almost calm. "Will you be making it a habit?"

Her jaw dropped a bit. Oh, presumption indeed. "_I _didn't ask to be put here!" she said hotly. "I think the servants here assumed that I was—that I—" She flushed a bit. "By definition it wouldn't be a 'strange bed' if it was a habit to sleep in it. But they shouldn't have assumed that anyway!"

Loki's eyes caught hers. She couldn't seem to look away. So many colors. She had forgotten how beautiful he was, in a sense that normally didn't make sense to attribute to something so... so masculine at the same time. "Or I instructed them to."

Hermione threw a pillow at him. "Loki!"

The pillow dissolved into its composite feathers, and then coalesced into a little white songbird she didn't quite recognize. Something from Asgard, probably. It fluttered onto her shoulder and started to sing, its sound wholly unlike any she had ever heard and she was laughing, despite herself. She had always loved birds.

Loki was still looking at her intently; though he smiled, he did not laugh. She met it not as the little girl she had been, but the woman she was, meeting his eyes steadily in turn. There was a dare in his eyes, his pupils ever so slightly dilated. "Would it be so bad?"

"Perhaps not."

He leaned in abruptly. The kiss was slow, soft, and had it not been so deliberate she would have said hesitant. It was the kiss of a god who could spend eternities exploring each and every single permutation of how two people could fit together, or a scientist conducting a careful experiment, repeating for a high number of _n_ to make sure the results were significant. His lips were soft and cool and dry, his breath leaving a little chill on her cheeks.

That any part of his body was properly composed of _flesh_ had never really occurred to her before: he had always been so careful, so clean, so _composed_, a sculpture she could only ever touch the surface of. But now—his mouth opening up and his tongue tracing her lower lip and his hands lifting to her to her face and pulled her closer to him, it all suddenly made him feel more real than anything else in her life.

She watched the kiss as if from afar. His reactions were remarkably similar to humans, really, for being a space alien, and for an absurd moment she wondered at why there were so many humanoids in the Nine Realms. She wondered if Asgardian social etiquette guided his reactions or jotun instinct, nature or nurture. She wondered what his hair felt like, so she brought her hands up and laced her fingers through it, soft like shadows.

Now that he had tasted something of her he couldn't seem to get enough of it: he seemed thirsty, _starving_, pulling them together until their chests were pressed tightly against each other. She was vaguely pleased to note that he wasn't wearing his armor, just the plain black clothes he'd always wear while at Hogwarts, there was nothing between them except a few scraps of cloth and—

He pulled back. Hermione looked, dazed, into his eyes. His lips were redder, swollen, and in the back of her head she was dizzily pleased to note that he was slightly breathless. "What are we doing?" she breathed.

She felt him tracing the muscles, all the faint little curves of her body, the lines of her shoulder blade and collarbone, her spine where it met the nape of her neck, where her jawbone became the soft spot beneath her ear, all so lightly it was like cool air on her skin, seemingly unable to stop _touching_. "I think," he said quietly, "something we should have done a long time ago."

Her eyes closed with a shuddering breath as his hands moved up her throat, impossibly soft and delicate on the sensitive skin. She was hardly a virgin anymore. She knew the sensations rushing through her body, a sweet desire spreading more swiftly and surely than any poison through her veins, that inexplicably overwhelming need to crush her body against another and _move_.

But she didn't think she was any more ready for _this_ when she was fourteen on her very first date with Viktor than now, a thirty-something-year-old with the details dependent on how generous you were with her use of the Time Turner. She had had enough unsatisfying one night stands and broken relationships to last a lifetime—and here she was on the cusp of a whole new life, and he seemed to be sealing it with a kiss. It was almost too romantic for a sardonic princeling like him but she felt herself shudder under his hands all the same.

Loki **wanted** her with an intensity she hadn't properly experienced before. She could see it in the dilated darkness of his eye, _feel _it in the crush of his hands and the press of his lips and the way his body _pushed_ at her, down, down, down onto his bed until she felt half smothered yet somehow flying all at the same time. She didn't think he was lying with this. She remembered even as a girl how he seemed to long after her. This wasn't about sex. Sex was rarely, after all, just about sex. He wanted something of her, wanted it for himself. He always had. With sweetly sarcastic words that bit at her like the thorns of a rose, with spells that left her paralyzed and wishing she was anything other than herself, with that impossibly pleasant _pain_ she felt around him, with how he seemed to bruise and bless all at the same time...

The heat building between their bodies felt impossible. The clothes Frigga had given her, though light and airy when she had moved about in them before, were suddenly clingingly cloy,in the way of the marvelous scraps of hot skin she could feel where both of their clothing had ridden up, and—_oh_—

Had he not been king he might have ignored the knock on the door.

Hermione could suddenly feel a very different sort of tension fill his body, like a cat that wanted nothing more than to lash out at what had interrupted his fun. Hermione couldn't help but laugh a bit though her body mewled with frustration. Just as suddenly as it it had begun, he pulled himself from her then pulled himself to his feet. He waved his hands and his hair smoothed back and his face looked slightly less. Well.

Loki was quite good at not looking guilty, but Hermione didn't quite have the trick of it. "Later," he murmured, his voice so slightly hoarse, his hand waving over the bed and straightening the sheets.

Hermione cast a _very _strong glamor on her face so, minimally, it wouldn't look like she was blushing quite so much. Loki quickly conjured some chairs and gestured towards them; apparently they were supposed to look like they were sitting and talking.

"Ashamed?" she asked, her voice light but a little thread of fear winding its way through.

"Never," he whispered fiercely, catching her eyes one last time as they sat down. He waved a hand at the door and it opened: three men and a woman strode boldly in, all clearly warriors by their wide strong strides. Hermione looked them over, her clinical Unspeakable mode settling in. The largest one, looking like a circus bear who had been dressed as a Viking for Halloween, seemed queerly comic but Hermione suspected from his muscles that he was no laughing matter when he fought. Next to him was a substantially slimmer man, his beard as tailored as the previous warrior's had seemed tattered and a pose in every motion he made, handsome and blonde and clearly thinking quite a bit of his sword. The third man had a scowl on his face that seemed so deep set it was as if it had been carved from stone, and the rest of him seemed every bit as hard.

The woman, however, had a quickness, a sharpness to her that Hermione immediately liked, with darting black eyes and a confident tilt to her head. She had dressed practically in clothes quite similar to Hermione's own; the Lady Sif, no doubt, accompanied by the Warriors Three.

_So, _she thought, squaring her shoulders and meeting their startled gazes steadily. _So._

She wracked her brain a bit and identified from Loki's scornful stories the one that steps forward first as Fandral. He looked at her with a frank appraisal that didn't seem to be quite as much about her abilities as a warrior as what little she had by way of other physical attributes. "At least," he drawled by way of greeting, "this one is a _woman_."

Loki scowled, trying very hard to seem dignified in his chair. The others in the little group were grinning, and Hermione couldn't help but smile a bit as well. The self-proclaimed master of mischief apparently couldn't take a bit of fun himself.

"Sometimes," Hermione said, and seamlessly shifted into her Animagus form—a lioness, fittingly enough, rarely something of use in her Unspeakable fieldwork but it _was_ her default form and it had a way of impressing folks that needed impressing. She slinked towards them, feeling physically _strong _in a way she never did in her natural body, and was greeted with hoots of admiring laughter.

She switched back into her human form and looked back towards Loki, cocking an eyebrow. His face twitched in amusement and seemed to lose something of its seriousness. He certainly didn't _like_ the Warriors Three, but there was a sort of reluctant camaraderie there, something she had always heard just beneath the surface in the almost loving scorn he'd heap on them all when he'd plop down in next to her in the library and _vent_.

Fandral stepped forward a bit more and stretched out his hand. "It's been a long time since I've set my eyes on a human woman," he said, "but if they are all half so lovely as you then clearly I've been wasting my years here in court."

Hermione took his hand and did her best to meet his strong grip with a confidence she did not entirely feel. "I wouldn't count them wasted," she replied coolly, "as you'd have been wasting your time at least on this one."

Fandral's eyebrows shot up and the others—or at least, Sif and the large one she identified as Volstagg—broke out again into easy laughter.

Just like Gryffindors. The thought made her heart ache for a moment, but it subsided soon enough when Loki stood from his conjured chair and came to her side. "I take it the court has already come up with something suitably scandalous. Tell me you are not here to play at voyeur."

Fandral waggled his eyebrows. "Loki, prince of Asgard and confirmed bachelor, takes in a human woman just after Thor has been banished to Midgard? The court scarcely needs to stretch itself to find scandal." The smile faded. "We looked for you in the throne room and the council chambers, but could not find you there. The Allfather is in the Odinsleep, and Jotunheim baying for blood. As fierce as your fair lady is, I must ask—what are you _doing_?"

Loki looked at Fandral coldly. "This was the first I have sat down since—well. I needed rest, and it is my responsibility to make sure my guest was suitably comfortable."

Sif's eyes wandered over to the bed, which was too neat by half Hermione abruptly realized. She desperately hoped that the glamors to keep the flush from her face were still intact. "Making her at home, I see."

Hermione opened her mouth to cut in, but Loki managed it first. "Hermione has been a friend of mine for many long years," he said, his voice sharp, "and a fitting companion while I visited Midgard to learn of their own sorcery. When I returned to Midgard to make sure my brother survived the fall given that he was without his powers—" _right, _she thought, but did her best to keep her poker face firmly intact "—and Hermione kindly agreed to accompany me home."

"Thor is well?" Volstagg blurted out, his tension deflating like a great balloon.

Loki blinked, then nodded gravely. "Thor is... uninjured, but adjusting to Midgardian life is hard."

Given the trail of bodies Thor had left in his wake, Midgard was having a hard time adjusting to _him. _Not that there was much that Hermione could do. Bringing an exiled alien refugee to Bill Weasley and the other Unspeakables would just render him a labrat for the rest of his days, whatever their best intentions might be. If the rest of the Ministry, or worse, _Muggles_ developed any sense of who he was... well. Without his powers or any other form of real protection, he was completely and utterly at the whims of governments that were built for the greater good and not for damaged gods.

Her stomach twisted anxiously and she looked over at Loki. He had a concerned look on his face, but like a bad dream it came back to her, his face twisting in vicious delight as Thor heaved at Mjölnir and fell to the ground in despair. She thought of Loki's smooth lips on her, ghosting, gloating, and it was all she could do to keep the frown off her face.

Sif stepped forward. "Loki, the queen has told us that you are king now while the Allfather sleeps. Surely, you could bring Thor back, he could help us defeat the jotens, he is a mighty warrior—"

Loki's face froze; something in her heart dropped. What was he so afraid of? "While you feasted and rested in my absence," he started, his face softening into something that could pass as regret, "I went to Laufey of Jotunheim. He is willing to negotiate for peace, _if_ Thor stays banished, and therefore _if_ Laufey can be assured that such an incident will not occur again." He spread his hands wide, and his eyes seemed bitter. "What would you have me do? Have a war and allow hundreds, perhaps _thousands _to die—or to let my brother live out the Allfather's last command before he fell into the Odinsleep?"

"We can't just leave him there!" Sif exclaimed, stepping forward and her face full of anger. "He needs to be _home_, Loki, surely you can see that, he needs us, his friends around him, he needs—"

"He needs to learn his lesson," Loki snapped. "Do you not remember how he was? He was reckless, impulsive. Have you forgotten so quickly how close we all came to death—us, _Asgardians, _at the hands of mere frost giants? And all because of Thor's precious _pride._ I went to the frost giants and took what I could. They do not wish for war, but they would not trust Thor as a king of peace."

"But they would trust you?"

Loki's eyes were cool and calm. For a long moment he actually looked the part, a king certain in his actions. "I am not my brother."

"Clearly." Sif set her chin stubbornly, but Hermione could see the resistance of the Warriors Three melting away. _They're lost without Thor_, she realized abruptly. _Completely lost._

And, looking over at Loki, his eyes blazing but his face still twisted somewhere between sadness and scorn, she looked at him trying to lead his own people and...

She closed her eyes. Loki. He had always spoken of his brother with a jealous timbre to his voice, but here it was, such an easy example. He wanted to lead their little group now and was hurt when they wouldn't listen. He didn't want to rule. He just wanted what his brother had always had with such ease.

She opened her eyes and saw that Sif was looking at her now. Maybe Loki was hurt that they didn't even like his new _pet_. She suddenly felt sick. She didn't come here to be gawked at. She came here to be—

—what?

She met Sif's gaze as evenly as she could.

A goddess?

She felt sorry for the the old Norse folks, in a way. Their gods were so petty, not wholly unlike the humans that worshiped them.

Some argued that man created gods in his own image; others pointed at old books and claimed it was the other way around. What was it, really? Where did Asgard come from? If Loki and Odin were any indication, æsir and jotun brains even functioned much the same as humans, a roiling soup of serotonin and dopamine and everything else that slopped around in the brainpan until their two legs and two arms and two eyes and everything else they had in common gave out and dissolved into the same soup of amino acids. Their DNA was even close enough that their species could interbreed, more or less.

Her breath caught. The planetoids of the Nine Realms were scattered across the galaxy, their native species each only subtly different from the next in the grand scheme of things: they were all _humanoid. _This was not coincidence. Hermione's intellectual instinct was tingling some fierce and she wanted nothing more than to scratch at it. Something terribly interesting was going on here, and she was pretty sure it wasn't just evolution.

She met Loki's eyes. He was smiling Why did he want her here so badly? She fiddled with the pearls at her ear. Oh, she had a stock of artifacts, she supposed, but nothing he couldn't have taken if he hadn't wanted them for himself.

What was his game?

She met those smiling eyes, and thought more deeply.

What did he _want, _really, beneath his petty jealousies and daddy issues? There was something there, flickering beneath all these little things in the short term, and she felt deeply unnerved. She remembered the heat of his lips on hers.

He's lonely, she thought abruptly, looking into his eyes. So lonely. Did he even know just how deeply it ran? He wanted her as... as a companion. Something for forever. Something he could hold close to himself.

Something _warm._

Loki's gaze swept over the group at the entry of the room. "Did you come here to try to change what cannot be," he asked, his voice all knives and needles as he broke the silence, "or did you have anything else to ask of your king?"

Sif's eyes slid down to the floor and she made a repentant little dip of her head. "Only your forgiveness," she murmured, suddenly all courtesy as she brought her hand to her chest and made a bowing motion. It _had_ been a battle, Hermione realized, and Loki had won.

She felt sad. For all of them, but especially for Loki. It was like a cat cornered by a bunch of dumb kids, poking at it with sticks and laughing as it yowled, though they would screech in surprise whenever they got scratched.

Fandral turned to Hermione and made an apologetic face. "I am sorry that your first visit to our realm comes during a time of such troubles," he said. "Your face would be fair to see at one of our feasts."

"Perhaps later," she said, trying to smile at the group that was starting to file out of the room. "Politics sours everything."

"Unless you share our new liege's taste for them," Sif slipped in like a little knife as she closed the door behind her.

Hermione winced, despite herself,. Whatever heat that had been between herself and Loki earlier had long since dissipated; Loki was stiff, stonelike, as smooth as something sculpted, a perfect icy prince. She wanted to hold him, so she did, tentatively stepping into his space and wrapping her arms around his whole prone body. Perhaps the hot desire was gone, but warm intimacy could still remain.

"I don't want to be king," Loki blurted out.

"I know," Hermione said, and she did. She did. She stepped back and looked at him. She felt frightened of the creature before her. The armory had so many treasures. He could be the most powerful man on Asgard, maybe even the Nine Realms, if he chose, he'd just have to sweep on down and take the Infinity Gauntlet for himself, he already had Gungnir and probably other things tucked away into pocket dimensions around him like a bandolier, but—

—but he didn't.

Why not?

What did he _want_?

Whatever it was, it had to be a very long ways off. He hated these little things. She could see it. He seemed so tired. He looked like he wanted to fall asleep in his bed, not—as he did right now—pull himself together with a shuddering sigh and look into her. Her suspicions, she was sure, were naked in her eyes, but she didn't care. She let him look into her, legilimency a faint pressure in her forehead as he poked about a bit, and smiled.

"I don't care," Hermione said, answering her earlier question. "I don't care what it is that you want. I just want to help you."

His eyes were so old. They were gray, now, almost like his not-mother's, clouded with thoughts of the future. "I know," he said, sad, and looked at her again. He wouldn't ever ask for help, Frigga had said. Help wasn't what he needed: whatever it was that needed doing, he needed to do it for himself.

She stepped in and hugged him again, arms around his neck as she burrowed her nose into the crux of his neck and shoulders, his skin smooth and cool. She felt him tense, then his arms came up around the small of her back and she was pulled a bit more deeply into him. She breathed in his scent, like sweet sage, but twining through it was the desert dust of New Mexico and—other things. Other places. Other plots and plans and for a few wonderful moments they just stood and she really _didn't_ care what he was up to at all.

This too must pass; Loki, after long, long moments, disentangled himself from her and instead put his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "Little lioness," he murmured, "you have not eaten in at least a day. You mortal form surely requires some sustenance. Your king commands it."

Her stomach growled angrily at the reminder, and she grinned despite herself. "Not _my_ king," she quipped.

"Not yet." Loki smiled into her. Was it a joke? Yes. No. Maybe. She couldn't care. "But even ants need to eat."

Tentative, raised her own hands to cover his where they lay on her shoulders. "Fine. But I'd—I'd like to talk to you sometime. About things."

Loki looked into her again, and nodded. "We have much to discuss," he agreed softly, and she shivered a bit as he pulled back and turned away. His armor returned in a shimmer of gold and Gungnir appeared in his hand out of whatever pocket dimension he had placed it. "There are some things I need to attend to first." His smile was a bit bitter. "Duty calls."

He turned to leave but she stepped after him. "Be careful," she blurted out.

"Why be careful," he shot back, only half turning and not stopping in his stride, "when I can be clever instead?"

_Because I'll be waiting_, Hermione wanted to shout after him, but he was already walking out the door, leaving her very much alone in his room again.

She sighed, looking about her. And he hadn't even told her how to go about acquiring food. He had a lot to answer for.

**A/N**:

Revised 3/5/13.

So, obviously, I changed up what Loki told who from Thor. He's being a wee bit more clever about this; the idea that having Hermione as well as Heimdall scrutinizing his every move causes him to be a touch more careful. Do the tweaks feel believable, given Hermione's insertion?


	13. Fistful of Silence

**Fistful of Silence**

**March 24th, 2010**

By the time she managed to backtrack her way to Odin's chambers, she was ravenous and certain that at least some of the funny looks the guards gave her were due to the growls emanating from her gut. She wasn't sure how much more loudly she could spell out 'fragile little mortal flower' to the very people she was supposed to be somehow impressing.

_Maybe if I trip and fall down some of these endless staircases, _she thought darkly to herself, still somewhat out of breath from the endless climb.

Frigga, ever aloof at Odin's side, only smiled when Hermione asked how one went about acquiring food. For all Hermione knew, gods only ate once a decade and went on a pilgrimage to some impossible-to-pronounce mountaintop to do so. "Would you like to dine with the Lady Sif?" Frigga asked, her voice kind.

Hermione blinked. "That'd... that'd be good." Better than starving anyway. Hermione thought of Sif's quick bright black eyes, her skeptical demeanor. Certainly no lover of scholars, but that didn't mean Sif hadn't seemed kind beneath her sharpness. Besides: Sif was at least _direct, _painfully so_. _Maybe Hermione could get some straight answers out of her.

Frigga summoned a servant to lead her away, to the room where apparently Thor had once held court with the Warriors Three, Sif and Loki. Hermione tried again to engage the servant, asking questions about the places they were passing by, but the servant's answers were curt enough that the whole exchange felt ... mechanical. Like punching questions into her computers back on Earth. Frigga's maid had demured even when Hermione tried to ask for her name. The palace barely even seemed alive.

She shivered. Immortality shouldn't make a place feel so _dead_. A longer life should beget liveliness in turn, right?

When she arrived at the room Sif was already there, staring moodily into the center hearth from an uncomfortable looking, but beautiful set of divans. She looked up when Hermione knocked on the frame of the door, and gestured towards the couch opposite her. "Make yourself at home," Sif said, her voice a bit bitter. "You need no invitation, guest of our king."

"Not my king."

Sif smiled at this, seeming to warm somewhat at the idea that Hermione wasn't under Loki's thumb. "It's hard seeing him as anything other than a pest," Sif admitted, her naked honesty startling Hermione. "Let alone as a prince having ascended the throne." _Not my king either,_ Sif seemed to say, as if she couldn't otherwise. Her black eyes flickered to the servants and Hermione frowned. For a society fixated on honor, Asgard was remarkably short on trust.

Hermione sat opposite Sif, as invited. "I feel like throttling him most of the time myself," she replied, answering honestly in turn. "Then again, he says the same of me."

Sif looked up at Hermione from beneath fine brows. She looked like a sword, all sharp hard proud lines. "How long have you known Loki?"

"Most of my life." Sort of. Played at being his pet for one third of it and waited for him to come back for a second third. Close enough.

"And I have known him most of mine," Sif replied, her voice strong and even, "and while I do not wish to belittle your kind, my life has been much longer than yours. If he has not yet given you reason not to trust him, then it is because of the brevity of your time with him."

Hermione couldn't stop a laugh. "Oh, he's given me plenty reason, believe me." How much did Sif know? That Loki was jotun? Judging by her demanding, somewhat confrontational expression, probably very little. Hermione felt slightly queasy at this: she was the closest thing Loki had to a confidante—_her_, a stranger in a home that he had inhabited for a thousand years. "Sometimes I wouldn't speak to him for years at a time."

Sif cocked an eyebrow, looking her over. "Did he tell you of the time he cursed my hair black?"

Hermione shook her head. She had read stories, of course, though she didn't doubt that whatever human had recorded the tale had gotten some of the details wrong. People who were barely literate had a tendency to do that, particularly in a culture that treasured mead and memorable stories more than it treasured good memory.

"Loki was the first male I ever managed to defeat in single combat. Thor wouldn't stop teasing him about it, being beaten by a girl. Next time we sparred Loki cheated and charmed my hair into a nest of snakes to attack me." Sif's smile thinned. "I cut off my hair, killed his conjured snakes and defeated him anyway. He claimed for years after he had done nothing to make it grow back black, but I still don't believe him."

Hermione couldn't help it; she laughed. "That's not the story we hear on Earth."

Sif's face quirked into a smile. "I don't doubt it," she said. "None of us could hold our mead very well in those days, and it does not honey our tongue as well as we like to think." Sif changed tack abruptly. "Are you a sorceress as well, then?"

Hermione nodded. "Sort of. More of a scholar than anything else, though. I like learning."

Sif frowned. "How did he find you? I never knew that he had been visiting Midgard on his own until he brought you here; I had always figured that he was in the library, reading some dusty old tome or another."

Given her antagonistic tone, Hermione was not surprised that Loki had kept his location a secret. "He _was_ in the library, actually. Mine. Or my school's, rather."

"He went to Midgard to read _books_?"

"And comforting bullied little girls whose friends didn't think much of books."

Sif scowled, catching the rebuke in Hermione's tone. "He did not follow the path set before him," she said. "Many gave him trouble for it."

"Like they gave you trouble for being a warrior?"

It was a stab in the dark but Sif's face drew into upset little lines and Hermione knew she had hit her mark. "Loki keeps his brother from returning home out of spite," she argued, "surely you cannot say that we are the same—"

This told Hermione enough. Coolly, she listened to the defensive tone that Sif had and knew her guilt. Hermione knew bullies, _particularly _the well-intentioned ones. "You're not the same," Hermione agreed, struggling to keep her voice soft. "Just similar. It hurts him, you know. That you dislike him so much. You refuse to listen to him out of spite; why are you so surprised when he returns the favor?"

Sif's face was stormy. "I do not dislike him, I would merely wish that he would at least _try _to be something other than a cheat."

Hermione thought of how he'd taught her to use a knife, how to throw it, how to stab it such that it'd slip between the ribs, how to slit a throat. She thought of how he'd taught her to duck and not just shield, to roll and not just fall, to crouch and not just stand. "A cheat by whose rules?"

"The rules of fair combat!" Sif gestured towards her hair; black as his. "Mortal, you cannot imagine the insult he has done us all over the years. I am hardly alone in my distrust."

Things were clicking into place. "That's why he would come to Midgard," Hermione said, processing out loud. "To duel with me. So he could play by the rules he wanted to play by. Yours don't—they don't account for who he is. They try to force him into something he's not and that's not really fair either. Of _course_ he'd go elsewhere to read books if this is the sort of reaction he gets here. That's not equal treatment at all."

Sif's eyebrows shot up. "And you say he sees an equal in _you_?"

Hermione tried not to be offended. They were gods, after all. "Not really. Well, sort of. I've yet to beat him, though I've left some scratches." Hermione grinned. "But—well, see? What you call cheating—it's just his game. That's what he's been given to play with, and it's one I—and my whole people—play."

"Maybe if he had spent less time scowling on the sidelines and more time training—"

"But that's exactly it, isn't it?" Hermione was feeling awfully brave. She leaned forward. "If everyone was constantly giving him a hard time about it, how could he? That's about as discouraging as you can get."

Sif's chin stuck out. "That didn't matter to me."

"You were once one of the Valkyries," Hermione shot back, recalling the histories Loki had told her, "still a warrior amongst them, and yet you _still_ chose another path. He isn't any different: he came to Earth and learned magic." Hermione pulled out the knife Loki had given her; a bitter gift too useful to bear putting aside. "And he doesn't think _nothing_ of martial arts. He taught me a few tricks too, for when magic fails. He doesn't think them mutually excl—"

Hermione stopped, frowning. Sif's expression had gone very, very still. "He gave you _that_?" Sif said, her smooth strong voice suddenly hoarse.

"A birthday present," Hermione replied, confused. "Why?"

"It is _Hallæri_," Sif said, the hoarseness gone but the horror still there. She got up from the divan and began to pace, eyeing Hermione as if suddenly prey and not predator. "_Æsahættr_. Did he not tell you what it was that he gifted you?"

Her translation charm was awful when it came to things that were intended as names and proper nouns. _Ugh._ "He told me that I had to figure it out. I've managed to puzzle out most of its properties, and I thou—"

Sif was holding her hands out, palms up, an odd gesture of peace from the warrior. "Put it away," she hissed. "If you value my life and the peace of Asgard, put it away."

Hermione did so, and the knife eased out of view at her side. "I didn't mean to offend you." She tried a smile. "We've established that Loki has a bad habit of keeping secrets he maybe shouldn't. Could you explain?"

"Godkiller." Sif's eyes burned. "It is the knife of Death herself, the blade of the Mistress of Nifleheim before she went mad and gave away all the sigils of her office. She has not been seen for many of your years. Some whispered that she had struck up court with mortals." Her eyes narrowed. "I would wonder how Loki has found such a thing, and why he did not present it to the Allfather at once. It is a powerful artifact, and by the laws of Asgard—"

Hermione's mind was racing. "I didn't know any of that," she said, interrupting, "but I can certainly ask him about it when he ret—"

"And what do you think he would tell you?" Sif spat. "More lies? Have you guess until you're half dead from his games and likely as mad as the last bearer of that blade?"

"He'd expect me to have the brains to figure it out for myself," Hermione argued, but she felt herself waver a bit. Though Loki had told her he loved her curious nature, he had never seemed so keen on answering her questions.

"That does not sound like friendship."

_It isn't_, Hermione wanted to say, _it's something **more**, _but she couldn't even think of a way to articulate it even to herself. Feelings were funny things.

Sif ploughed on. "Imagine if Loki had been cast out—exiled, as Thor, and without anything of what he knew, no magic, nothing. Would you sit and weep like any other woman, or would you fight to have him returned to you? Your supposed _friend _allows Thor, who has been my friend for a hundred of your lifetimes, wallow in a world that he has not visited since he was little more than a child himself. Thor is in exile for his good intentions and Loki does _nothing. _Would you not be angry? Would _you_ do nothing?"

Hermione met Sif's unapologetically demanding eyes for as long as she could before looking down at her hands again. "I would not," she whispered. Sif stood and started pacing. After a few minutes Hermione came to a decision. "I could bring you to Earth—ah, Midgard, if you'd like." Sif stopped her pacing and impaled her with that sharp stare of hers. Hermione took a deep breath and continued on: "To make sure that Thor is doing well. I don't think that'd do any harm to your treaty, and I don't think Loki would be too upset either, after he got a chance to calm down. I can also send a message to someone back home to try and make Thor... comfortable, at least until all this blows over and he can return."

_If _Thor could ever return, and _if _he didn't get himself killed first with his usual carelessness—but Hermione didn't addend her spoken statement further. Sif would use such points to push for more than Hermione was willing to give. Indeed: Sif opened her mouth, likely to demand that Hermione bring Thor back as well, then shut it again. "Any assistance will be gratefully accepted," she said roughly, inclining her head and placing her fist on her chest. "When can we leave?"

Hermione closed her eyes, now positively dizzy from the lack of food. "I need to eat first. Rest a bit. I think I've got the general theory behind an—" stammering as she barely believed what was about to come out of her mouth "—an interstellar portkey down, but it'll take a lot of energy, if not much time." At Sif's blank look, she elaborated further: "Um. Portkey. It's a bit of magic that will be able to transport you to and from Midgard. Like the Bifrost except less... showy. More efficient."

Sif made a gesture at one of the voiceless guards at the door. "Bring her food," Sif commanded, her voice ringing with authority. "She requires sustenance before she works her sorceries."

Hermione winced a bit. She was quite uncomfortable with the lack of independence that members of the court here seemed to show, incapable of doing much of anything on their own other than... wallow in drama and beat each other up. Still, she wasn't about to argue. _Technically_ Gramp's Law that you can't magic food into existence had been proven false, but it turns out that transfiguring proteins and sugars with the sort of precision your digestive system needed was trickier than most hungry people were willing to put up with.

Sif interrupted her thoughts with another razor-sharp pivot of subject. "Loki. He loves you?"

Hermione blinked. "I—what?"

Sif came and sat down opposite her once more, her eyes intent. "What are you to a _king_?"

It occurred to Hermione, not for the first time, that she barely had any idea. "I'm not sure," she said carefully. "A friend, I think. He doesn't seem to have many of them."

Sif missed the jibe in favor of making one of her own. "He took you into his chambers. He parades you before his family, the entire _court._ He gifts you a legendary weapon so casually that he does not even think to tell you it could kill us all—and he has not declared his intentions towards you? Loki's manners are at times abrupt, but I have a hard time believing that he would behave so dishonorably even to a mortal."

Hermione's mouth opened, then closed. He _had_ told her his intentions, actually, but she hadn't thought to believehim: she had been fourteen and that was before she had effectively shut him out of her life for a decade. Of course, as Sif had rather bluntly pointed out earlier, time didn't really pass quite that way for Asgardians; to Loki, it must have seemed like he had stated his decision and was just waiting for her to catch her breath so that she could reply.

And, he had _kissed _her and she had kissed him back and if Sif hadn't interrupted Hermione might have found herself effectively married to him for all she knew of the customs of this strange and ageless and sometimes profoundly _stupid_ place.

Oh, she hadn't a _clue. _

Hermione's throat was dry. She desperately wanted a cup of water; even mead would do, if Loki's stories were anything to go by and that was the only thing anyone drank around here. "He wants... **me**," Hermione said helplessly. "That's it, really. I think everyone else is just incidental."

Sif narrowed her eyes bit, and leaned back on the couch. "I will admit that I have almost as much difficulty believing a friend of the Liesmith as the Liesmith himself," she said, candid, "but I have an even more difficult time believing Loki would tie himself to a fool. What are you? Why are you here? I do not understand." Her brows drew together. "I would say, perhaps, that you have enchanted him somehow, but as little as I know of magic I doubt even more that Loki would allow himself to be won by a mortal woman. And yet you are not so attached that you are not also willing to disobey him. What would you have that Loki would want?"

Hermione's indignation was picking itself up together again, her temper crackling. "Maybe he just wants a friend," she snapped, letting her agitation out entirely. "Considering that his friends here won't ever believe a word he says, maybe he just wants someone that doesn't call him a liar and a cheater every few sentences. Maybe all you people on this crazy little world really do care for him, as difficult as it seems to be for you to demonstrate that, but have any of you ever _listened_? Sat down, got his side of the story, gave him a good time on his own terms? Maybe that's why he went to Midgard and found himself some dumb _mortal_. Dumb _mortals_ don't _care _about how many hundreds of years you've been heckling at each other or about stupid stunts he pulled when you were kids. I really don't give a damn. I just see someone who is very lonely and very brilliant and very much just needing someone to pay attention."

Sif was bristling at this point but Hermione cut her off. "I'll give you a portkey so you can say goodbye to Thor. And I'll send a message to my friend to make sure Thor at least won't die right away on Earth—poor bloke probably doesn't even know how traffic laws work. But don't think for a minute that I'm your friend. That's not how this works. I'm going to do what seems to be the right thing to me, just like Loki, just like you, just like Thor and Odin and all the other players in this _absurd_ melodrama we have here. Right now, for me, that means helping you, but I'm not going to put up with more than I have to. Not until I have something to eat. Then you can say whatever the bloody hell you want."

Somehow, Hermione had managed to shut up a creature that had been around almost as long as vellum. Sif stood up stiffly, bowed, and left.

Hermione waited until Sif had gone through one of the doorways before collapsing into a puddle of tired. She didn't know how much time passed, but eventually food was set before her and she barely even had the energy to thank the servant. Not that the servant would have acknowledged it even if Hermione had been looking for it past the sight of food.

It was simple fare, all breads and fruits and meats and cheeses in large chunks and no utensils to speak of. Maybe she shouldn't have expected a culture of immortals to be so bored as to come up with an elaborate cuisine, but for now she was just grateful that the food was comprehensible, unlike everything else in this place. She could grab everything with her hands and put it in her mouth and chew. Easier than pie.

Her gaze was drawn, however, to the glisten of a single golden apple at the center of the assembled plate.

Hermione knew the stories. She thought of Sif's confusion, Frigga's calm, Loki's certainty, and, without hesitation, took the apple and had her very first bite of immortality.

How to describe?...

Every part of her _tingled_, to start, somehow even bits that weren't directly connected to her nervous system; she felt truly aware of herself at the cellular level, telomeres and mitochondria and neurotransmitters and all the other parts of her she had learned about in her biochemistry textbooks coming into an overwhelmingly sharp focus. She—she sparkled_, glittered_, every micron of her suddenly thrummingly alive in a way she had never imagined she could be. This wasn't the sort of pleasant body glow one got on painkillers or other psychoactives, the cells themselves hysterically happy.

She took one bite, then another, then another, the flavor growing richer and sweeter each time; she had the absurdest sense that even her taste buds were getting better. Was this how she had tasted things as a child, before the slow and impossible to sense decline of age slowly sapped her world from around her? Had colors once been this impossibly bright, had sounds, the little echoes of her own chewing off the walls of the chamber and individual fibers of wood crackling with fire and the shifting of armor with the breathing of the guards—was this all her optimum state, the full potential of her own genes except even then healed of all the little mutations that they had accumulated over time?

Hermione laughed, happy and alone in her own head yet the whole world outside seemed to snap into sweet clarity. She finished the apple with gusto; she'd find another later and then take samples to do science to. For now, her body was now crying out for sustenance and she relished in each and every single thing they had set before her. Water, water had never seemed to properly have a _taste_ before but now it did, she could feel all the little fibers of the boar flesh come apart in her mouth as the proteins just began to break down, the sparkling spiciness of pepper on lamb, the _give _of the peaches... everything was the most delicious thing she had ever had, the fire before her the brightest, her own heartbeat the most thuddingly real.

That had not been life before. _This _was life. To think, these so-called gods took this for granted, kept it from so many billions of souls just because they weren't worthy by some bizarre set of standards that Hermione could barely even wrap her head around. What honor could there be in keeping others from experiencing such a high beauty? Loki had told her that Asgard had stagnated and required change. Did he himself understand the half of it?

Hermione stood, relishing in the feel of freshly knitted muscles moving within their sheathes of skin. She had never been a particularly physical person but now everything in her seemed to rejoice in simple movements, flexing and feeling each muscle fiber individually for the very first time. She spent a few minutes quite probably making a fool of herself in front of the stoic guards before she remembered what she was supposed to be doing.

She selected one of the goblets, holding it one hand while drawing the Elder Wand with the other. In this state magic felt like the easy flow of water as poured from a cup; Loki suddenly did not seem so powerful, not when his body could be _this._ She closed her eyes, stretching out her senses and found herself overwhelmed with the sensory overload of it all. Oh, she had been _good _at this before, she had had the time and patience and care and slowly curl her mind around the world around her just as she might work her way through a library one book and one shelf and one aisle at a time, but this, _this... _she needed no patience, her mind leaping out around her through the cacophony of smells and tastes and sights and sounds until she found her mind at the Bifrost. She could feel the tens of thousands of paths splitting off from it, some bright as highways in her mind's eye while others were little more than paths where candles flickered from each end. Yggdrasil's roots, as the poets called it, but they were all just rips in the dimensions of space that were growing bigger and bigger every time someone walked through them. Was the universe falling apart? She felt like laughing at the thought that she could sense such a grand and terrible thing.

Hermione did her best not to get distracted, but _oh, _she could spend lifetimes on anything she happened to see. She managed to find the taste of Earth, _Midgard_, a great blue green beacon hidden amongst Yggdrasil's innumerable branches. She was dizzy but she threw herself down, down, _down_, finding what somehow _felt _like New Mexico and then the little crater where she had found Thor and Loki and the swarming of nonmagical folks. She didn't have Thor's scent, his magical signature, but he wasn't hard to find: he glowed great and golden-red in her mind, smiling and laughing with a big broad ease and mortal friends and he was _cooking_ of all things.

Even this connection was a strain on her, though, she could feel a headache just beginning to mount in the space behind her eyes. She clutched at the connection with Thor and placed it into the goblet with a fiercely whispered, "_Portus_." The connection snapped into existence in an exhausting yet exhilarating rush, old paths in Yggdrasil recombined to something bright and shining new in her mind.

She tucked the Elder Wand back into its pocket dimension, once more just another glimmering pearl at her ear, and transfigured herself some sheaves of parchment out of sprigs of rosemary left on the plate of food. The paper still smelled faintly of the herb, not her best charmwork, but it would do. She composed two quick letters with a wave of her hand, one to Harry with a terse explanation of where Thor could be found and that he was to be kept safe, and another to Sif explaining how to use the portkey. The letter to Harry she sent off using the portkey connection she already had at her ear, the distance straining the connection slightly, and to Sif her otter Patronus that clutched the goblet and parchment between its teeth before setting off in a blur of silver-blue.

And then Hermione sat, as still as she could, trying to get a hold of her whirling head. Everything was pressing in, insistent in the importance of existence and being acknowledged by something sentient. She felt overwhelmed. Were humans even supposed to be eating those golden apples? Her brain felt like it was overclocking, an overheated processor, but there was no way to slow it down, only to fly with it and hope she didn't burn out but her feet were still on the ground and her toes were curling in on themselves and maybe things weren't so okay but they were so beautiful how could she _stop_?...

The world was dazzlingly exquisite in its detail, the complexity in even a mote of dust drifting through the complex thermodynamics inherent in the air current that changed with every breath she took and flicker of flame, the little pores on her hands prickling as she could feel the sensation of sebum slowly excreting, and sweat, and her eyes, she could feel tears trickling down, knew how much sodium and potassium and other salts were dissolved into it. It _hurt! _She clutched her knees to her chest, adrift in a sea of sensation and drowning. The world was so startlingly alive and it was hurting her. She could feel her fingernails bending as they dug into her calves and she could feel the beginnings of a bruise as the capillaries broke and blood flowered just beneath the skin and she could feel her body begin to heal itself as the golden apples of the sun saturated every inch of her.

She wasn't sure how long it lasted, until it all became bearable again; it felt like eternities but it could have been minutes. She didn't know what it was, probably something to do with her brain returning to homeostasis as her unconscious adjusted for suddenly having so much information to filter out as irrelevant, even as her conscious mind protested that it was _all _relevant. She didn't know. Maybe the golden apples had just gotten to her brain last, or there was some sort of radical synapse reconstruction involved.

She smiled to herself. And here she was, thoughtlessly putting things into her body and trusting in what other people told her about the substance. Who said this sort of stupidity was just for college students?

All the same... was this... this _perfection_ encoded in everyone's DNA? Hermione wasn't sure. It was hard to say without knowing what exactly the apples did or how they worked—maybe they did genetic therapy too, massaging mutations that they somehow recognized as _bad _out of existence while encouraging "good" ones to take root (but how?) Hermione was full of questions she couldn't answer right now.

All she could really do was open her eyes and look around at a world that was brighter than it had been before, even though she knew it was exactly the same. The guards hadn't even flinched, as far as she could tell. She felt as invisible as they did, but now somehow grand. When she stood, this time she did not grow dizzy and fall down, but stay upright, putting one foot triumphantly in front of the other until she had walked right clear of that room and began making her way down to the throne room.

She didn't bother with glamors, and though she honestly didn't know how she would be received by anyone who would just stumble into her. She had no idea. What was the real Freya like? A bombshell of a bimbo like Lavender Brown, or something more sublime? What about the ravens, what about Balder, what about Tyr, what about—all these figures that had somehow _not _figured as anything other than caricatures in Loki's scornful stories of his home? Hermione hadn't a clue. She felt a bit giddy without the stealthing enchantments that had become her custom when walking about the palace, a girl again at the Yule Ball, her chin up and her back straight. _Divine, _he had called her then, and right now she finally felt that she was.

But she didn't run into anyone. The halls were long and silent except for guards and servants whose only recognition of her presence were the tracking of their eyes. A thousand years of living had only turned them into machines, it had seemed. Pity twisted in her gut and she promised to change it all, just as she had once promised for Wizarding Britain and just as she had done because Hermione Granger _kept her promises. _

Even to Liesmiths. _Especially _to Liesmiths. Hermione had made a promise to Loki once upon a time. Guards opened the door to the throne room, and she stepped inside as queenly as she could.

* * *

**A/N**:

Revised 1/22/2013.


	14. Warrior Concerto

**Warrior Concerto**

**March 24th, 2010**

When she finally stood before Loki in the throne room she felt swallowed up into the belly of the leviathan and already wanting to make her escape. As with the rest of the unpronounceable palace, the throne room was vast yet eerily empty, gleaming gold yet entirely devoid of warmth. Did everyone usually hide away during the Odinsleep, the whole of the realm drifting into a sort of hibernation while their true king slept? Loki must feel bitter presiding over an abandoned hall. The alternative was that the crowning palace of Asgard was usually this dead, that Loki had spent his entire life in such bleakness. Either way, she couldn't imagine living here.

Things would have to change.

She wiggled her fingers experimentally, reveling in the simple ripple of tendons.

_She _had changed, after all.

There was probably some elaborate protocol to follow, but she neither knew nor care what it might be, a sort of crazed calm crashing through her veins. She wasn't about to start kneeling to anyone now. Even Loki. _Especially _Loki. She didn't care what the custom was for kings.

From where she stood at the base of the throne, she had to crane her neck a bit to look into his face. She could see a flitting warmth in his eyes, his face softening almost imperceptibly, but mostly he kept his face regal and still. He certainly seemed very intent on looking kingly, for someone who had said that he had never wanted to be king. "The golden apples of the sun shine in your eyes and lighten your step; I'm so glad you've finally accepted my offer."

Hermione wasn't sure what to say. She felt giddily strong and every little sensory input still seemed too exquisite for expression: really, she wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and babble about how beautiful the world was to her now but... she couldn't bring herself to do it. It wasn't the armor or the helmet or the spear, she didn't think, or even really the fact that he was on a giant golden _throne_, but rather in how he was holding himself. She could scarcely even reconcile this creature with the one who had pressed her down into his bed barely a few hours ago.

Something was _wrong _with Loki and she couldn't quite put her finger on it; that frightened her somewhat. There were too many things she didn't understand about this place, and that the thing she was the most familiar with was also the very thing that scared her most did not sit comfortably on her shoulders. Her whole stomach was tangled up on itself, the giddiness turning over into a vague malaise, almost nausea; still, she did her best to stay aware, looking over his visage for a hint of what was going on. "Thank you," she managed after a moment. "It's... very eye-opening, to say the least." A smile tugged on her face. "Maybe a little _too_ eye-opening; truth be told, I'm having a hard time focusing."

She figured it out even as the words slipped out of her mouth: _his_ eyes were unfocused, his mind literally _was _miles away while sitting on the Allfather's throne, Hliðskjálf, the high seat. Loki had told her about it some starstruck evening years ago when she was younger: from the throne, one could see everything in the Nine Realms—at least in theory. He had smirked a bit at this and hinted rather strongly that he had figured out ways around this, even if he hadn't figured exactly how the throne itself worked, but as usual wouldn't tell her any details. _Figure it out for yourself, _he had goaded her, in a way that made her wonder whether he had any answers at all.

Sitting with him in the library wide-eyed with wonder at his stories of Asgard seemed like a lifetime ago, but all the same Hermione suddenly felt childlike again, ignorant and naïve. Nothing had been wrong with Loki at all, she just hadn't understood what was going on in this strange new world. She flushed a bit, embarrassed; Loki smiled down at her, understandably condescending. "It's not godhood," he said, his tone patronizing but proud, "what you've been granted, not properly, but it's the only step I could have you take until the Allfather awakens." He paused, looking into her, his eyes suddenly focusing intently on her for the first time since she had entered the throne room. "We have a long ways yet to go."

Something of her more certain self ghosted back and she found herself smiling. "I've always been up for a challenge," she quipped, thinking of how Loki was still calling Odin _Father_ despite everything this place had done to him—thinking of how terribly brave life required you to be if you weren't going to crumble at the injustice of it all—thinking of how terribly wonderful it all somehow managed to be anyway.

Loki's eyes grew a little darker; from ten feet away she could see the subtle dilation of his pupils, the blue-green-gray iridescence to his eyes. She held herself straighter and took in the shimmer of his magical aura, here with the throne and the great spear Gungnir he seemed ablaze with a kaleidoscope of furious power, the whole of the Nine Realms tied in great pulsing arterial veins to the throne upon which he was seated. A thick cord of it stretched out above their heads, soaring into the distant heights of the hall, probably eventually leading to the Allfather himself. She felt the sense of wonder renew in her chest, fierce curiosity kindling, and her smile broadened. "Times may grow difficult," he said quietly, calmly, kingly. "Are you ready?"

"Always," she breathed and she looked into his eyes and let him see in. Loki could remain behind his Occlumancy barriers. She didn't care. He would come out, eventually. He was just scared up on that big golden throne of his, like a cornered cat that had found itself a perch in a tree. She would have always waited, but now, she could wait for forever if that was what he needed. Loki-as-king was her Loki too, just like all the others she had been privileged to glimpse; she could be patient for them all.

Loki looked down at her as she was thinking these thoughts; he smiled, and his face seemed to soften even more. "My lady," he murmured, the whisper somehow a roar in the throne room, "I find myself wishing that—" He stopped abruptly, his eyes sliding out of focus again.

"Wishing what?" Hermione asked, breathless.

"Jotens!" Loki exclaimed, standing abruptly from the throne, Gungnir gripped tightly in one hand. "Guards, to the Allfather's chambers, Laufey is there—Hermione, to me—"

Confused as she was, she needed no further coaxing. Feeling sudden adrenaline singing in her veins she ran up the steps to the throne, not caring a whit for whatever etiquette there was. Loki held one arm out and she tucked herself into his now-familiar embrace, his vivid green cape swirling around her as Loki teleported them both to Odin's bedchamber.

Hermione knew how to fight. Perhaps she didn't have Harry's reflexes, but she was _smart_: between Loki and subsequent training at the Ministry she had learned to think through combat in a way that turned it into a fiercely intellectual art. She had never stopped loving the feeling of striving, even if she didn't like to cause harm.

But here someone _was_ trying to do harm, and Hermione simply would not put up with such things, not when she didn't have to. As soon as they arrived she fell into a low crouch, easy as a cat, pulling out the Elder Wand from its pocket dimension as she did so. The jotens were easy enough to identify: their bright blue skin and bloody red eyes were entirely out of place amidst the gleaming golds and bronzes of Asgard. One joten was towering above the Allfather in his bed—Laufey, judging by his appropriately melodramatic tagline about who was killing who—and two others were advancing with knives of ice at Frigga, who appeared to have fallen to the floor. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Loki raising Gungnir to the one threatening Odin, so she aimed for the ones threatening the queen, coldly selecting the hottest spells she knew.

It was over in seconds; she doubted any of the jotens had even properly registered their presence before they were killed, not even able to scream as her tightly controlled Fiendfyre consumed them.

Hermione watched, dazed by the adrenaline still pulsing through her like a strobe, as Loki planted Gungnir down at his side. "And your death," he said quietly, addressing a spray of ashes that had once been Laufey, "came at the son of Odin."

Frigga lifted herself from the floor and threw herself into Loki's arms, who returned the embrace. Their family didn't seem all that good with the whole physical affection or positive feedback thing; how long had it been since he had last been so wholeheartedly thanked?

Hermione slipped the Elder Wand back into its pocket dimension. Other questions. What had just _happened_? She tried to force her thoughts into something vaguely linear. This had all started when the jotens came to take the Casket of Winters back to Jotenheim but had been caught. Thor subsequently had gone to Jotunheim to confront them, only to cause an interplanetary diplomatic incident. For his insubordination he had been exiled to Midgard; Loki had reported that the continuation of this exile had been the basis for a peace treaty between the two Realms.

Then... why this? Wouldn't this have then been the first failed act of open war, an assassination attempt in which the wrong king happened to get killed? Did they honestly think that Odin would be entirely unguarded in the very heart of his realm?-why would they have reason to even think such a thing? There must have been something that made them think it worth the risk, some imagined edge that slipped out from under them.

She looked at Loki and the slow smile curving his lips as he held his adopted mother tightly. And did this not make him king of two realms, now?

She took in a deep breath.

_Clever._

After long eternal moments of the whole room breathing Frigga pulled herself loose of her son, though she still held him by the hands. "Odin would be proud of your choice," she said, her voice warm, almost inane. "Odin, and all of Asgard."

But... had Loki actually made a choice? Hermione wasn't so sure. Morbid curiosity tugged at her mind. "What about Jotenheim now?" Hermione found herself asking, tense.

Loki's eyes were cold, yet Hermione thought she could see the faintest sheen of red glimmering from within. "They burn," he said, drawing himself up and tugging entirely away from his mother's touch. "They thought they could kill the Allfather, that they could take on Asgard. They will all _burn_ for that mistake."

"That's... that's _genocide_," she exclaimed, but her voice sounded distant even to herself. "You're heir of Jotunheim now, right? You can just go over there and make peace with—with yourself, since you're king of _both _realms. Can't you?" It was so simple. So _easy. _But suddenly she was aware that there was something else going on, something entirely too cold and calculated in Loki's eyes. She scrambled for something else to say. "Isn't that what Odin would want you to do? Make peace?"

She watched his reaction from far away. His face twisted up_. _"I would rather Asgard be lost to me than to have any hold on Jotenheim," he spat. "One cannot make a permanent peace with _monsters._"

Frigga moved protectively over to her husband, her gray eyes wide and unfocused. Hermione stared. She could see the hard seething existential knot that he had been trying so desperately to bury these past hours through any means _necessary—through a kiss through a plot what's the difference?_—rise to the surface and for a painful moment it was as if she was seeing Loki for the very first time, this ugly damaged creature that was suddenly snarling at her.

Painful, until she realized then for the thousandth time that this was just another facade of a fractured whole, another bit of porcelain picked up from that vase that had been dropped so uncarefully to the floor.

Yes_. _This had happened a thousand times before.

_Nothing's changed._

She wanted to cup him in her hands, hold him, make it all better. But she couldn't. So she watched, numb, as he quivered in rage. "I'll stop you," she said simply, her voice neutral as she could make it, "if you try to kill them. Genocide is still genocide. We need to calm down."

Loki bared his teeth at her. Hermione felt the coldness in her chest harden, as if his joten form had reached out and squeezed the blood from her heart. "You won't stop me," he said, his voice ringing with a confidence that was recognizably cruel. "You never could deny me anything. You gave me your _soul, _Hermione." His hands tightened around Gungnir, his posture shifting into something about to strike. "Asgard requires the eradication of those vermin, and do not forget that they once tried to destroy your own world as well. They must be destroyed."

Hermione drew the knife he had given her all those years ago, the one that had so horrified Sif, and then the Elder Wand with her other hand, her body moving into the defensive stance Loki himself had taught her. "I'd think to deny you something that you'll regret very much later on," she said, a stammer threatening to start though she kept her voice strong. "Even if they've done wrong, you can't... can't just kill an entire race."

"You said you wouldn't care," Loki snarled, his whole face suddenly twisting up, "you aren't _supposed _to care," and he _threw _himself at her. She yanked the knife out of the way at the last moment; he was laughing madly as they both fell to the floor in a heavy flurry of green. She felt the furious cold heat of his body only for a moment before she gasped out _Apparate_ and reappeared on the other side of the room_—_but just as quick he teleported right there besides her, already throwing curses towards her like rain.

Was this what he wanted all along? He had a broad wicked smile on his face that curved like a scimitar as they threw spells at each other, fast and desperate. Her blood was singing again, and she was moving faster than she ever had in her life, fighting better than she had ever thought possible, matching him blow for blow, hex by hex. She had had some Auror training at Bill's insistence, and plenty of practical application after the War whenever fieldwork got a little dodgy, but this...

Truth be told, she had never felt more alive; she had never indulged in such... catharsis before. Parry, ripost, reset, _kaboom! _as stone shattered and the walls cracked and they were breaking the world around them into a thousand pieces. _I don't understand! _part of her cried out, except the rest of her did, her body as it dodged and ducked and spat out vicious spells, her mind as it ran cool calculations and it all kept on _coming_. It felt inevitable. It felt like love and hate. It felt like _life _as she had only just tasted in that golden apple earlier, everything now hypersensitive as she moved with Loki, acutely tuned to his presence, his every twist and turn. This was not cleaning up after Harry and Ron, this was not research done in dusty libraries for the greater good: this was action and reaction, emotion and movement. He was wrong and she was right and she was going to prove it after she had him shut up long enough to listen and it felt _good_.

Frigga was still down besides Odin, wincing slightly whenever shards of stone flew their way. For a mother whose son was in (im)mortal peril by the apparently infamous godkiller gripped tightly in Hermione's hand, Frigga was oddly calm. Then again, for someone who could see snatches of the future and seemed certain that everything was going to turn out alright, she was strangely sad. Frigga and her prophetic insights still didn't make a whole lot of sense; Hermione decided that she was going to have a _very _long chat with her coworkers still rebuilding the Hall of Prophecy.

But for now, there was no room for such thoughts.

Only for Loki, looming before her with a furious intensity that left her gasping as she tried to hold her own.

"We don't have to do this," Loki shot out as he parried her improvised variation on _Expelliarmus _on Gungnir. "Weren't we supposed to talk?"

She was abruptly grateful for Sif's clothes; they seemed remarkably tear resistant in addition to retaining complete freedom of movement. Useful for when she had to throw herself to the ground with a distinct lack of grace to avoid what looked like a paralyzation jinx. "I'd love to," Hermione ground out, rolling away from something red and most unkind looking, "but I must insist on doing it _before _you exterminate a whole species to prove a point." She didn't feel like finding out whether the apples were the things responsible for the fast regeneration rate of Asgardians, just in case they weren't and she would heal just as slowly as any other mortal and very possibly bleed to death on this very floor.

How strange, that suddenly she wasn't sure whether she could trust Loki with her life. The thought itself hurt her more than anything he could have possibly thrown at her, more than Bellatrix's _Crucio_, more than a decade of could've-would've-should'ves.

"How impatient." He dodged another quasi-_Expelliarmus_. "How _dull_."

She was trying to keep her distance because she knew he'd have her beat at hand to hand but he made it hard, always pressing forward at her. "Genocide is one of those things that _most_ people find worth getting riled up over." Still, boring Loki was probably a bad idea, when his idea of breaking up the monotony was to run off to destroy a planet—if he hadn't already set something in motion. She sent fire racing towards him, only to see it extinguished as the air around her suddenly became a vacuum, the fire flickering out of existence along with the lack of oxygen to burn. She heaved for nonexistent breath for just a moment before she put a Bubble-head charm around her head and dodged his next hex a beat later.

"What I don't understand," Loki said, twirling Gungnir as he parried another of her spells, "is how bringing peace to the Nine Realms seems so strangely irrelevant." The air came rushing back into the space around her in a gust that made Hermione stagger to her knees. "Really Hermione, I thought you a pragmatist; where is your utilitarian calculus when the math is so simple? The frost giants have had a thousand years to rebuild since the last war and Jotunheim still lies in ruins. You ask why Asgard has not expanded to fill the stars—it is because we won't _take _them from the monsters who can scarcely stir to scare us anymore."

Most of what he had just seemed to cut through her shields like butter; she resolved to try a few of her more experimental defense magics out. _Field testing, _she told herself_. _"I remember fighting against a monster who said something rather similar," she spat. Disappointment clenched at her. "Loki, I never thought it'd be _you _next."

Emotions rippled across his face, twisting so quickly she could scarcely identify them before she had to duck again. "I spoke with your Lord Voldemort once. I must confess my disappointment in him: one must always make sure extreme measures are warranted before implementing them." He paused, breaking up the rhythm of the battle to stare intently into her. "Voldemort sought to extinguish the likes of you, my dear, which I find... short-sighted; however there are no such bright-shiners in the jotens, and therefore their kind is of no great loss." His smile was almost smarmy. "Your analogy is, therefore, inadequate."

Hermione wasn't particularly surprised at this point that Loki had met up with Voldemort. Between their apparent mutual interest in the Hallows and his increasingly conspicuous sociopathic tendencies, she was almost surprised they hadn't gotten along. "What about you?" Bitterness flooded her and she spat out a furious entrail-expelling hex that he just as quickly batted away. "You are joten, are you not?"

His face twisted again. She could not see Loki, _her _Loki, only the monster that had lurked at the shadows of her vision for years without proper acknowledgment. "I am not joten!"

"Then what are you?"

"_Loki!"_ he roared and leaped unexpectedly towards her. He left his front bare to blows but she couldn't bring herself to thrust forward with Æsahættr, not when his face was twisted in such **pain**_. He does know me well_, she thought dazedly as she let herself get tackled instead, stumbling backwards against the sudden press of his weight until she was pinned against the wall. He threw up some sort of anti-Apparition ward before she could teleport herself away, their bodies as close as his battle armor would allow, Loki's face inches from hers in a sick satire of intimacy. "I am Loki of Asgard and I answer only to _myself_!"

"And to prophecy," Frigga slipped in from Odin's side. Her voice was like a cloud, barely even there at all. "We answer us all to it, in the end."

"Do not speak to me of _prophecy_," Loki spat. He tried to snatch at Æsahættrwhere it was still clutched in Hermione's hand but she managed to worm the one arm out of his grasp and shove the knife back into its pocket dimension. He viciously slammed her against the wall again in response, the force leaving her dizzy. "Ragnorak would not happen if Thor had remained away, a mortal who could have simply _died._" He slammed Hermione against the wall again, and again, and again; she felt like a rag doll in the mouth of a dog. "Yet I feel him in Asgard yet again, and alive! I am a king betrayed. Asgard would have stood for forever, I'd have managed to fulfill the prophecies, Heimdall dead by my hand as the oracles said, I've led the enemy in to invade as they had foretold but then killed them all before real harm could come of it, all components of the prophecies would have been satisfied and things could have been _good, _Father—"

"No, Loki," Frigga interrupted, her voice gentle as she cut through Loki's rush of a rant. Hermione watched Loki's face breaking, fingering the Elder Wand in her remaining hand, trying to retain circulation despite Loki's bruising grasp. "Your understanding of the prophecies is incomplete. You have not been exiled, as will yet happen, and it will be that place of exile from which you were to lead our enemies to slay your brother." Her gray eyes didn't seem to see anything at all. "So much has yet to come to pass."

Hermione didn't quite grasp what was going on—she knew the basics of the Muggle myths about Ragnarok and though she couldn't immediately see how it applied she could certainly see how it cut Loki asunder, his pupils constricting and his whole body suddenly tensing like a bowstring about to break, shuddering against her. "No, no, no, _no..._"

Hermione wormed her way enough through his flickering anti-Apparition wards so that she could teleport herself away again, to the opposite side of the room where she promptly braced herself against the wall, heaving for breath. Loki staggered in her absence but didn't seem fit to resume combat: instead he crumpled, slumping as if he was the rag doll that had been flung about far too many times. He looked up at Frigga again, his eyes dead. "She told me I could stop it all," he whispered hoarsely, "she _touched _me, you have to believe me, I meant only the best—"

Hermione blinked."Wait, what?" Surely he wasn't talking about her...

Loki didn't seem to hear. "I don't understand," he babbled, "this isn't what was supposed to happen, I don't understand, I thought of _everything, _they had all only said exile from my place of birth and Laufey had abandoned me and it all _fit_, I—"

Loki cut himself off, for once: it was Hermione's only warning that Thor was about to come barging in. Sif's rather unsurprising disobedience had spectacular poor timing: Thor slammed what remained of the door open, his bright blue eyes widening in shock and rage at the scene before him. It took him only a few great strides to get to where his brother—his _false _brother—was still leaning heavily against the wall. Loki barely even flinched when Thor lifted him bodily by the neck and _shook_ him like one might a bad cat, Gungnir falling from his hand "My brother!" Thor roared, his voice filled with anger, "the Destroyer, the Bifrost, what have you _done!_"

Loki met his brother's eyes for just a moment, his face carefully blank, before he simply—disappeared.

Hermione exhaled hoarsely, looking around for Loki to reappear, to engage his brother in furious self righteous battle, to kidnap Thor, to reclaim Gungnir, something, anything. But he didn't. And didn't. And didn't. "You idiot," she breathed, her mind whirling as pieces began to click into place. "You _idiot!_"

Thor turned, noticing her for the first time, his face dumb with furious shock. "What is your part in these ill doings, stranger who walks in our halls?" he demanded, clutching at Mjölnir as if the wrong answer would end with it planted in her skull. "Who are _you_?"

Hermione was only half listening, as what Thor said finally sunk in: she looked out one gaping wall to where she could see the Bifrost building, sparkling supernova-bright in the impossibly beautiful sky of Asgard. Such a spectacularly inefficient transportation device, capable of punching gaping holes in space time.

Almost like any of the dozens of devices that Odin had hidden away in his Armory.

Almost like something that could destroy a planet.

Almost like a weapon.

Almost like the sort of thing that Loki would sneak off and start on his own accord while he had them all distracted with a simulacrum.

"I'm a friend of monsters," she said tiredly, a little disgusted with herself, and Apparated away to stop mass murder. Funny how good intentions get put off.

The interior of the building that directed the Bifrost—the one she had arrived in barely a day ago—was filled with that queer gold Asgardian halflight but now it was touched with pale blue: a great crystal tree now stood in the center of the chamber, bright and beautiful. _A fractal_, she theorized haphazardly: Yggdrasil, and the threads connecting not-so-arbitrary worlds.

She held back her nausea when she saw Heimdall's gutted and charred corpse. _Fiendfyre_. Capable of severing any soul from its material coils, mortal or no; one way to kill a god, amongst a few, the knife at her hip among them. The corpse had a delicate ice filigree over the top, perhaps placed to persuade others that it had been the work of jotens, but Hermione knew the taste of fiendfyre and of Loki's magic far too well.

_Gods..._

She pushed them all out of her head and went to the podium where Heimdall's sword stood impaled, a key to worlds in a simple lock. She pulled it out, staggering with its weight and letting it clatter to the ground. The chamber around her stilled, but she was beyond seeing it. She fell to her knees and began to sob, the full weight of the last day falling down and crushing her.

Loki was gone, and she couldn't even begin to think of what to do to fix it all.

* * *

She couldn't face the gods. Not yet. She forced herself to leave again as soon as the tears stopped. The path from Asgard to her own world had been trodden down deep enough that she could make the interstellar jump for herself alone, following the trail that the Bifrost made across the stars to the place where Loki had wrapped her up in his arms an eternity ago to take her home.

His home. Not hers.

The long range of the Apparition left her staggering, and suddenly underneath the hot sun of her homeworld she felt for an excruciating moment like she would pass out entirely. The brightness of the desert blinded her, the hot air suffocated her. Nothing was right and she wanted to curl up and cry in her own tiny little unloved flat and stay there until this all sorted itself out. Maybe Loki would conquer the world. She couldn't bring herself to care, not right now.

By the time she had recovered her bearings enough to look around, she was almost ready to pass out again. Harry and Bill were there, barely five feet away, out of breath and desperate as if they had come running to see her. Had they been nearby? "Hermione!" Harry cried out, already stepping forward to support her.. "Are you alright? I got your note but I couldn't make any sense of it, we were all so worried—"

Hermione stiffened in the sudden cage of his arms. Bill knew her well enough not to crowd her, standing apart with his arms crossed and his ginger hair matte with pale desert dust, but he looked—well. Worried wasn't even the half of it. "I'm fine," she said, looking around her and straightening herself best she could. The place was _still _ crawling with Muggles waving all a manner of electronic equipment around, but now they were all staring at her expectantly. Not the usual reaction Wizarding kind got. "What's going on?"

"Well," Bill said, his voice calm but concern threading its way through it, "but we were rather hoping you could tell us exactly that."

"_All_ of us," said a third man, stepping forward, older and a Muggle right down to his pressed pants. He held out his hand. "Agent Coulson of SHIELD. I believe we have much to discuss."

**END OF PART II OF APHELION**

* * *

**A/N:**

Revised 1/23/2013.

Does... what I've done so far generally make sense? Basically, one of the things that was happening in Thor in this theory was that Loki was trying to circumvent the prophecies of Ragnarok, having seen an opportunity to do so. Think about what he does in the film, and what he learned, and how sneakily well that slides into his part in starting it all. If you assume that the little colorful details in our _Midgardian_ version of the prophecies (which I've been trying to point out are probably colored by literary fancy) are probably not applicable, than this interpretation of Loki's actions should mostly work. "I could have done it father, I could have done it!"... This will be explored in more detail later as Hermione sets herself to try and figure out what, exactly, Loki's game is, in Part III and an AU version of Avengers.

Writing from the perspective of someone who doesn't know everything of what's going on is... well, tricky. I'm trying to find that balance of revealing just enough to keep the story interesting and worth reading while also not spilling the entire mess of it quite yet. How's it going? And how was the action sequence and the back and forth? It's not something I've played around with much, so feedback and advice would be most excellent!


	15. Trance

**PART THREE OF THREE**

**Chapter Thirteen: Trance**

**One Year Later**

**June 10th, 2011**

She was in the desert again, as had become her habit in the last year. The ley lines hadn't shifted. Of course not. Things didn't change on this planet. Not for the sake of her sanity, at any rate.

Upon Apparition she immediately squinted, the sunlight from out the window blindingly bright. It was always such a change, coming out here. She wasn't just being passed from one SHIELD-funded air conditioned cube to the next, laboratory to conference room and back again. Desert lighting, harsh at it was, always felt like a good change over the ever-present florescent lighting of the big bureaucracies that ruled her life—SHIELD and the Ministry, seated in New York City and London respectively. Minimally, the distance did at least gave her a sense of comfort: looking outside, sometimes she felt far enough away that she could escape it all.

Then, of course, she would feel the heaviness at her ear where the pearls hung like chain links of lead. She was too valuable for anyone to ever let her go, but not quite strong enough to get out of their reach. Not when she had the best surveillance tech of both worlds looking over her shoulder, just in case she got 'kidnapped' again.

Her eyes took a moment to adjust: Jane Foster's laboratory, funded by SHIELD right down to cardboard cutout of Spock in one corner. It had everything they could possibly want—and quite a few things they didn't, like security cameras in every corner and bugs on all the computers. Fraternizing with the enemy when spun right had sounded a lot like collecting important intel, particularly when said enemy had more unknowns associated with his name than the technocrats really liked to see. She told them—_Them_, with a capital T—she told Them enough that they didn't devour her whole. It had gotten Hermione out of most of the trouble caused by her affiliation with Loki-the-villain, and while this compared bitterly with how Jane's Thor had been acknowledged as an unproblematic vigilante... she would take what she could get. Not spending her days being poked and prodded at in some SHIELD cell certainly suited her, for a start.

At the end of the day, Hermione and Jane were both being given research monies because they were both _useful_, uniquely situated at the junction of two very different worlds. For Jane it was a dream, her theories recognized and _funded _by fancy acronyms, beyond ecstasy at the thought that she had been given her very own supercomputer to run simulations with. For Hermione, it was the same game of resumes and filling empty niches that she had been slotted into after the War: SHIELD and the Ministry, newly made aware of each other through their mutual recognition of the importance of the 'New Mexico incident', were just tickled that they had a loyal war hero to slot in between them who was already straining to bridge their worlds. They hadn't even needed to change her job description; as the international liaison for the Department of Mysteries, she now also just dealt with sufficiently advanced technology that even to her eyes didn't seem a whole lot different from magic.

Hermione looked around the lab and the comfortable clutter she and Jane had accumulated this last year. But those were the office days, the ones she hated most, halfway around the world on a whole different latitude. This, on the other hand, this... this was just research. No politics to play, no psych analyses to simper through, no high rises or secretaries or technocracies. Jane Foster had become strangely like a friend to her in a time when she felt estranged from everything else on this world.

"That you?" Jane trilled through one of the doorways; one of the first things they had developed together was a proximity alert for when someone Apparated on the premises, which had evolved out of their attempts to understand how teleportation worked in the first place. It turned out that tearing tunnels through spacetime made for some pretty distinct EM signatures. It was certainly useful enough; she probably wouldn't be able to hear Hermione's arrival over Doctor Whoreruns otherwise.

"Who else would it be?" Hermione called back, a little tired. She paced back and forth, idly kicking an empty popcorn bag with one foot. "I'm pretty sure that I'm the only person who doesn't use the door."

Jane's giggle echoed from down the hall; from the shuffle of cloth it sounded like she was changing clothes. Just as well. She had a tendency to forget to do that, when left to her own devices. Women of science didn't have time for _fashion: _they were creatures of starry eyed curiosity and intense hyperfocus, not remembering to do their laundry_. _People were complicated, sure, and so were all the textiles that could be tucked in about their bodies... but even more complicated were computers, or genetics, or astrophysics, or whatever else they had been assigned to study today.

Though sometimes it was admittedly a struggle to find a pair of pants that had been washed in the last month. Hermione could hear something rather like loads of laundry being upended one room over. Hermione wondered, not for the first time, how often Jane left the lab; as often as Hermione left her little cubby in the Department of Mysteries? "Sometimes Thor flies in through one of the windows," Jane prattled on, her voice trailing from down the hallway. "Like a freaking _bird_ or something. Apparently they don't have windows on Asgard. Broken glass, everywhere_. _Gosh, why is it harder to locate pants than type II supernovae, this is ridiculous."

Jane still hadn't made her grand entrance, and so she didn't see the scowl that had settled on Hermione's face. Jane was wonderful, but there was the unfortunate side effect of having Thor as asignificant other who made rather significant use of the very Bifrost that they were trying to study; more unfortunate yet was her tendency to fangirl over him. To say that Hermione was still... sensitive about Loki, and mistrustful of Thor from having spent a good part of her childhood hearing awful stories about him, was an understatement.

Hermione heard the _OMG!_, as probably did half the SHIELD complex; Jane had found pants. Her heavy footfalls followed shortly thereafter and she bounded around the corner of the hallway, swinging a bit on the doorframe. "Coffee?" Jane asked, grinning like a little girl. She made Hermione feel so... so _old_, even though they were near the same age—and Hermione was the one who was biologically rendered like her 18-year-old self by the golden apples, not this thirty-something postgrad. "Elixir of the gods, or so I've been told."

She was grateful to Jane: she did a brilliant job of reminding her that other things were important, things that had nothing to do with Asgardian princes and their tendency to pick up Midgardian math geeks. And even when things _did _have to do with that other world—it could be taken with a sense of humor, none of this impending doom and damnation that Hermione had so long associated with anything that had any magic to it at all, from Lord Voldemort and Loki on.

Hermione couldn't help but smile a bit back. "No, thank you. I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime."

Jane detached from the doorframe and walked on in the room, kicking a Pringles can aside as she did so. Pajama bottoms weren't... quite the same thing as pants, but it was close enough. Neither of them liked to pay much attention to what they were wearing, if they could help it. "Trying to quit again?"

Hermione's grin quirked up to one side. "Something like that. Got decaf?"

"Blasphemy!"

"Can't say I'm feeling particularly religious today."

Jane rolled her eyes and went to the coffee pot; they had rigged it to run pretty continuously. "Hermione, gods _do _exist, and those gods love coffee. Thor says he's ordered some of the gardeners on Asgard to try to get it to grow there. Earth has its first interplanetary export and it's _coffee!_"

"What else do we have to offer?" Hermione, a bit scathingly. "_Culture_?"

"Just because you don't like Doctor Who!" Jane poured herself a cup. "Anyway, I don't think SHIELD requisitions decaf. Not for us mere mortals at any rate."

_They're not actually gods, _Hermione thought to herself. _They just like to think of themselves as such. _Some of them—_some _of them—had powers, but Hermione didn't think that they were innate to the æsir. Not any more. Not after spending a long, long time thinking over those readings she had taken while in Asgard. Between the suspicious resemblance of all the species of the Nine Realms despite the absurd cosmological distances separating their planets and the arbitrary and haphazard way in which power seemed to be divvied up in Asgard, Hermione had been starting to think that maybe the gods themselves had gods—some deeper and truer source of power, something maybe that abutted the birth of the universe itself.

Of course, it was all just hypothesis at this point, and she didn't exactly feel like she was up to interrogating Odin on why Yggdrasil was so intimately tied to his states of consciousness. Nor had she been able to pursue her research in any remotely formal capacity, lest SHIELD or the Ministry got a hold of her thoughts—and realized the extent to which she had been witholding information about her involvement with Loki. So in her head her suspicions stayed. Her heart ached to share them with someone who had a chance at understanding them—Jane, maybe, or Bill if she could ever get past the fact that he had essentially handed her to SHIELD to use as their personal lackey.

But she wouldn't. This was her problem to solve. Figure out where it all went wrong, use the Time Turner to make it all right again. _Fix it._

Was this how Loki was, beneath it all? She remembered the tomes littering his room, the way he'd hyperfocus in on the books at Hogwarts, his long fingers caressing the pages as he had so briefly her as a lover. What would he do if he saw her now? Congratulate her on all the little things she had learned in his absence, or mock her for not doing more? Kiss her, hold her, hate her, make her a queen, call her a whore and spin her around in delight? She'd say that she'd give up the world for him, but... she hadn't, and now here she was, feeling guilt and shame for it.

Loki was lost to Hermione, even though she knew that he probably knew exactly where she was right now. Asymmetry, power imbalance: never made for anything stable, all the self help books said. The sequence of events last year on Asgard read something like a comedy of errors when she played her way through them in her memory, crossed wires and uncareful actions as he stretched himself overtaut for a plan far too precarious to ever prevail. It was almost as if he hadn't wanted to win, as absurd as that sounded. Like he wanted to get caught. Like he wanted to be known as the bad little brother and an even worst son, as a trickster and a liar even to his own kind. Like he had hated himself just that much to play into what he thought everyone had been expecting of him for years. That he wanted the excuse to get away and to never return, to finally be somewhere else, all ties cut in one great dramatic blow.

It was just a theory, of course. Hermione's couldn't pretend to actually understand what had gone through Loki's head. It had been too... garbled, frenetic, and couldn't even dare copy anything out into a journal, or discuss it with friends—there was always the possibility that it would get back to the people were the less convinced of her lack of involvement with Loki. They suspected, rightly, that she was hiding something from them.

These were her things, though. Her burden. Her secrets. Her memories. Small, little things, remembering how his skin had heated under her fingers, how his eyes would flicker with a thousand colors, how he had held her, how he had taught her, how he had cared for her, how he had...

She swallowed. Or maybe not.

It was funny, really. Loki and Thor, brothers by upbringing even if not by blood, certainly had a type; looking at Jane sometimes was like looking into a better adjusted mirror of herself—a Muggle who had never had to fight in any war, free to simply explore. _That could have been me_, she'd think, feeling cold. If Loki hadn't found her. Maybe she'd be happy then. She'd spend days sometimes, staring at numbers, nostalgic and emotionally vulnerable, catching a bit of Jane's excitement like a fever.

She tried not to fixate, of course. Technically speaking they weren't looking for Loki—SHIELD wanted them to create their very own the Einstein-Rosen bridge, the phenomenon underpinning both the Bifrost and Apparition, as being able bend and break spacetime in that manner certainly held the theoretical keys to a lot of the universe's secrets. But Jane recognized that finding Loki was important—to Thor, who still mourned the loss of the brother, and Hermione, who just needed to have some _answers _that couldn't be looked up on the Internet or investigated with some empirical work.

Jane shrugged and took a healthy swig off her coffee. "Well, I'm a happy addict then." She tipped her mug. _Don't get all imaginary on me, _it proclaimed with an elegantly italicized _i._

And then at the same time, Jane could also make her feel _normal_: with a flash of that brilliant and utterly unpretentious smile everything could just be... alright, for a time. They'd eat pop tarts and drink instant coffee and sometimes get pizza on SHIELD's tab, scribbling equations onto napkins and scrolling through Chandra feeds together instead of Tumblr. Like a normal, functional human, or as close to one as a thirtysomething in a midlife crisis could be.

Their biweekly visits were the best balm that Hermione could have ever asked for, even despite the constant reminder that Thor's presence as Jane's significant other provided. It... desensitized Hermione, somehow, to hear about Jane's blossoming relationship with Loki's brother, and Jane had the marvelous patience to simply be herself and let her exuberance slowly spread.

Hermione and Jane both settled in at the sprawling workstation, comfortable as could be. SHIELD certainly didn't skimp on equipment, particularly when it came to making things coffee-proof. "Well, keep me out of it," Hermione continued on, logging into her desktop computer. "I'm not looking to strain my circulatory system any more than the stress already does."

Jane gestured grandly with her coffee. "If you're more awake, you get more done. Ergo, less stress."

"Caffeine directly increases cortisol production."

"But _indirectly _improves performance, which will reduce cortisol production in the long term." Jane beamed. "Look, you're not the only person who can speak neuropsych. Just because my head's in the stars doesn't mean I don't try to take care of it."

"Can we just... can I not, right now?" Hermione sighed. "Anything interesting happen since last time?" _Interesting _was the unspoken code for _anything that might have to do with Loki_.

Jane took the hint. She was good at that. "Well, sort of." Jane set down her coffee and her fingers started to patter away at the keyboard. "SHIELD finally got around to requisitioning Fermi for us! If we matched Thor's star charts right, we should now have a read on Jotunheim." A few more clicks and the spectroscopic analysis popped up on both their screens. Jane grinned broadly. "Otherwise known as Ross 248. We're neighbors!"

"I don't think they're the sort to appreciate gift baskets," Hermione said dryly.

"Has anyone ever tried?" Jane leaned forward, tapping her finger against the screen and leaving prints. "I mean, I love him and all, but Thor's idea of diplomacy doesn't exactly involve free trade agreements. It'd be a hell of a lot easier if we could just head over there ourselves to take these readings but _nooo_, there's already been an interplanetary trespassing incident this century."

"Preaching to the choir." Hermione frowned. "The readings?" She started to bring it up on her own computer.

"Nothing that looks like a giant mythological tree, buuuuut..." Some more pattering; Jane beat her to it and brought up an old spectroscopic analysis of the Ross 248 system. "I think _this _smudge is probably Jotunheim itself, though, y'know, exoplanets are a bitch to detect, especially when we've got something as dim as this. Can't even pick it out with the naked eye, y'know. Won't be able to just point to it from our skies. Anyway..." Jane pursed her lips. "I'd guess these peaks are methane and nitrogen on Jotunheim, seeing that they're pretty rare on red dwarfs. And oxygen, that's cool. I like oxygen."

Hermione tapped her fingers on the desk impatiently. "Do we have any basis for comparison? Any other exoplanets with a similar profile? Maybe then we could isolate any residual atmospherics, and see if we can pick out readings from the Bifrost itself."

"Yeah, one sec, NASA's been compiling something recently that SHIELD's been pretty good about sending out way..." Jane typed away some more, Hermione feeling vaguely useless. While she had taught herself quite a bit, she was still mostly just someone to bounce ideas off of when it came to the specifics of astrophysics. Jane was the one with the PhD here. "Whoah, that's weird. We've got a profile a lot like _Titan_, would you have guessed that? I don't think us humans would find it to be very breathable, though next time I get Thor in here we can see how his lungs manage to work in those conditions, since we never did get around to establishing how exactly their respiration works under anaerobic conditions and I bet SHIELD would _love _to be able to replicate that in humans—I mean, just imagine the medical possibilities—"

_I don't think they're interested in medicine_, Hermione thought darkly, but didn't voice it aloud. "I think it's more likely there's just a thin strip of oxygen near the surface, rather than the entire atmosphere," she said. "Frost giants can pass easily from Jotunheim to planets that are predominantely oxygenated."

Jane frowned. "Can they? We haven't met a frost gia—oh."

_Oh. _Loki. Who had spent his entire life on a world other than the one he had been born on and his joten lungs, apparently had nary an issue with Asgard's atmosphere. Or maybe the golden apples had somehow helped his body with that too; so, then what would happen now that his supply had been cut off?—would he not be able to go home to Asgard without asphyxiating?

_He always said that Asgard was suffocating, _she thought to herself humorlessly.

Hermione shook her head. Science didn't do her head a damn bit of good some days. "We'd have to go there and find out."

"Field trip?" Jane joked. "Thor and I's anniversary is coming up in a few times—oh for Chrissakes." She kneaded her forehead. "I'm two for two now, aren't I?"

Hermione sighed. She could only take so many reminders before even Jane's well intentioned clumsiness would cause her to crack. "I'll take that coffee now."

"I forget sometimes," Jane said, her voice soft.

"So do I." Just sometimes. And only for a few moments. But... still.

"Sorry," Jane apologized again. "Um. Cream or sugar?"

Hermione shook her head and rubbed her temples, trying to focus on the new readings. She hadn't meant to pull Jane down like that. This was why Hermione just didn't do peopleanymore. When she wasn't at work and no longer forced to interact with the handful of other human beings working on the integration of magic and technology, she kept to herself, mostly. "Black. Just... plain, black coffee." She felt heavier than if she was on the surface of Neptune, sinking beneath an ocean that couldn't decide whether to drown her, poison her or freeze her first. Clinically she knew the technical term was depression, but that hardly helped.

Jane patted her hand. "We'll find him. I promise. And—hey!" Their computer screens started to flash; a second later, both of their phones began to ring loudly. SHIELD could be a bit petulant when it was trying to get someone's attention.

Hermione got her phone out and up to her ear first. "Granger speaking."

"This is Agent Coulson." She could hear shouting in the background. "Fury wants you."

Hermione frowned. "What's—"

"_Now_, if you would be so kind." And the line snapped shut. Only Coulson could cut her off and make it seem polite.

Hermione smiled apologetically at Jane, and began to brace herself for—well, the other half of her job description. "Duty calls," she said tiredly, and brought her hand up to her ear where a black pearl portkey connected her with arguably the most important man in the world. "And—thanks."

Jane lunged forward, her swivel chair teetering dangerously off balance, and caught Hermione in an awkward one-armed hug. Hermione returned it long enough to not be considered rude before disentangling herself. "Anytime," Jane said, "and, later, if you need someone to talk to—"

But Jane was already swirling away as Hermione was sucked through the portkey.

Invisibility and secrecy were second nature to her now, but wherever Fury was, they were just as likely to get her pegged as an intruder and shot. So when she arrived it was as her most conspicuous self, brown hair haloed around her head and still wearing yesterday's slacks and blouse.

Hermione looked around. It was another of SHIELD's underground research facilities, by the looks of it, though they all really did manage to look the same: gray concrete and glossy tech

Despite her lack of standard issue SHIELD uniform, no one was stopping to demand her security clearance: everyone official-looking was too busy bustling about about—something. Probably the bright blue thing at the center of the room that everyone was gesturing excitedly at.

_Huh._

Fury was easy to find; the portkey had deposited her only a few feet away from him, and—frankly—being the only black man in a white man's world made him quick to spot, and his trademark leather trenchcoat certainly stood out amongst the SHIELD blue jumpsuits and white labcoats, a dress code all on his own. He swiveled his good eye towards her and started in without prologue: "We may need you to evacuate everyone on short notice," he told her shortly, scarce moments after she had gathered her bearings. "How many can your magic get out at once?"

"As many as I can touch." Apparition was one of the first bits of magic that SHIELD took an interest in 'sharing' with the Ministry, but they weren't about to give security clearance to the Ministry's regular rescue wizards; for now, she was the only one SHIELD would allow in for even emergency operations, and they sure as hell wouldn't tell her what it was she was evacuating most of the time. She had never even been in this room before, for example, and would probably never be told of its purpose unless she managed to guess at it.

A bad habit of hers, Coulson had told her with a sad smile. Curiosity was not something treasured by SHIELD, not in the way it was allowed to flower freely as it could with Bill Weasley in the Department of Mysteries. She had to be careful here.

_Very_ careful. She knew the art of misleading, when to speak and what to say to not quite lie: Loki had taught her well.

Hermione looked around. "Anything I should know?" she asked.

Fury's good eye narrowed. "Even Selvig doesn't know what's going on," he said. "We're working with too many unknowns here: all we've got is that this facility might just go to hell any minute and you might be our only ticket out of here."

Hermione blinked. If this was Eric Selvig that Fury was talking about, then she had met with him briefly when she had replaced him as Jane's research partner. He had been tight-lipped but bright-eyed about his next project for SHIELD, and Hermione hadn't pried, not particularly feeling like being poked at in return. Selvig had seemed like a kind man, something of a father figure to Jane—she kept a picture of him above her desk, right next to her expanded periodic table of elements. Hermione was willing to guess that this was the other project that he had been brought in to work on—something rather more dangerous than quantum tunneling.

"Should I start bringing people out now?" The scientists bustling about didn't seem _too _alarmed. Then again, apocalypse scenarios and black holes were a bit of an everyday ordeal for SHIELD physicists. As long as they got out of the lab _before _it exploded, it was considered a good day.

"Not yet," Fury said. "Just stay out of the way. And don't spook anyone. Not everyone's been briefed. People start screaming, energize them out or whatever it is that you do, but not before then. And don't wait for my call, just do it and _don't forget me either_. Got it?"

She nodded assent, and started layering Notice-Me-Not and Silencing charms on herself. Fury was already turning away, likely looking for something to administrate at. So, she did what she did best: explored. She turned her gaze back towards the pulsing blue light everyone seemed to fixate on, a sort of... cube? Not something she had been told about previously, but a few moments of eavesdropping on the scientists scurrying around her gave her its name: the Tesseract.

More than just a cube, then. A hypercube. _Spacetime, _all four dimensions? The budding physicist within Hermione was intrigued. Something else Jane would love to poke around at.

She looked more closely at the rig around the cube. It looked an awful lot like someone was trying to set up a portal—stage, stairs and everything. While SHIELD certainly liked its secrets, it didn't make a whole lot sense for there to be multiple teleportation projects running simultaneously; bureaucracies were almost by definition inefficient, but not this much.

_Hmm._

Hermione's brain was whirring into overdrive. The rig around the Tesseract was looking—well, rather explosive. A quick diagnostic spell showed that it was throwing off rather spectacular amounts of radiation, mostly gamma, and at that, of the _mostly _harmless variety. The signature didn't quite match anything she had seen before, but she'd have to wait to doublecheck with her database back at the Department of Mysteries, as they were apparently were deep enough underground that her personal satellite connection couldn't resolve.

Whatever the Tesseract was, it certainly didn't look like SHIELD's usual technological marvels, a little too tidy—and a little too esoteric even for them.

Something not theirs, then, and Bill Weasley or any of the other Ministries around the world hadn't reported any ancient artifacts missing recently.

Something... something Asgardian? Hermione's head positively thrummed. If they were still suspicious of her and—well, maybe even Jane, given her continued involvement with Thor—it'd make sense why they wouldn't want either of them involved—but it didn't _feel _like other Asgardian magic Hermione had sampled—

So many questions. She felt her best when she was puzzling something out, the heaviness of depression now lighter on her shoulders. Hell, she felt like she was _flying_—

—and came to an abrupt crash when she realized that she recognized a signature permeating the air around her.

Loki.

The Tesseract made a roaring noise, and _pulsed. _

Hermione looked towards Fury—he seemed to have already acquired a bodyguard, who hovered over him with all the fierce attention of a mother hawk. She decided now was a good time to start being concerned about the civilians and started making mental notes of where they all were, so she could start Apparating them out when—

Hermione threw her arms up, protecting her eyes against the subsequent burst of blindingly blue light, instinctively throwing up a shield. When she could put her hands down again, she found herself staring into where the Tesseract had thrown its energy, a podium at the far side of the room where, at the center of it, surrounded by swirling mist, was Loki. He was kneeling, but in no subservience. He looked tired. Tired and _hungry_. The circles under his eyes formed great purple gashes across clammy skin, his hair long and lank, his chest visibly heaving with heavy breaths despite the armor.

Her mouth went dry. Oh, gods, what had he done to himself—where had he _gone_—

She kept the Silencing and Notice Me Not charms firmly intact, not trusting the sudden bristling of Muggle weaponry deployed by SHIELD in the slightest. Loki's eyes were searching the room, but not for her. She had learned many things from SHIELD in the last year, and one was that she shouldn't show her hand so quickly. Her impulsiveness had gotten herself into far too much trouble; sometimes it was better to lay low and see if problems solved themselves, or if others would solve them for her.

She fingered the pearls at her ear. Once she knew what it was that she wanted to do, what needed to be done she would have all the time in the world to do. No need to rush anything. Let things unravel as they would; once she had a better sense of what Loki was up to, she could go back and... and make things better.

Things certainly needed bettering. Loki held a long wickedly curved staff in one hand, but that hand seemed to shake a bit. The whole of him seemed unsteady, a wave about to break, and she felt afraid.

"Sir," Fury called out, "please put down the spear!"

_At least he said please_, Hermione thought dryly, as Loki took the spear and shot a vicious bolt of energy right at Fury. The SHIELD agent at his side pushed both of them out of the way just in time and they both went crashing to the floor. Bullets began to rain down on Loki, compliments of SHIELD's pet soldiers, but Hermione found herself more concerned for the civilians; given that the screaming had started up, she took this as her cue to get people out of the way. She and Loki needed to have a talk. It'd be best if others weren't around to get hurt for it.

Still invisible, she steeled her mind and began rapidly Apparating back and forth between the facility and the closest SHIELD locale she knew of, in Arlington Virginia, each time touching one lab technician and leaving them startled several hundred miles from where they started. People with such a high security clearance would get taken care of, once they were out.

It didn't take long, maybe a minute: she had drilled this already. When she couldn't see any more technicians running around she turned back to surveying the scene, still invisible and thinking as quickly as she could. Something had changed in the scant minute she had been working at evacuating people: Fury now stood alone, facing off Loki, Eric Selvig and several SHIELD agents.

_Huh. _Hermione's mind raced faster. Fury held a briefcase tightly, protectively; the Tesseract? What did he want her to do? _Accio _the briefcase and Apparate it away for safekeeping? He hadn't given her any orders along those lines, or really any indication at all of what he needed. What was going on?

_And this is why you shouldn't keep so many secrets, _Hermione thought to herself, and decided to take the initiative for herself. "Accio Tesseract!" she cried, ready to Apparate the moment after.

Except the Tesseract didn't come to her waiting hand. The briefcase didn't even twitch.

Loki's eyes flickered from where they had been once staring down Director Fury, looking all around him. Apparently he still couldn't see or hear her, though he had clearly felt _something._ "But ants _do _have an unfortunate tendency to swarm," he said, clearly continuing some conversation with Fury. "What's this now, you've been learning magic tricks? What clever insects you are."

"Advanced science," Selvig put in, as if in correction. His eyes glowed glacier blue; some sort of modified Imperius? Something emitted by the Tesseract? It was the same color as Loki's staff, too. There were several agents at Loki's back, their physical posture clearly indicating a shift in loyalties and not just puppeteering: they turned towards Loki as they might—well, a god. Hermione's stomach churned. Whatever it was, the magic didn't seem to just bend will; it seemed to break it. "Fury likes to have his fingers in a lot of pies, and keeps most of them all to himself. It's probably another of his projects. Some sort of defense beta."

Loki's head cocked to the side, towards the SHIELD agent next to him. A shield flared into life around them, and with a distinct sinking feeling Hermione knew it would take the equivalent of a magical battering ram to break through. Her grip tightened around her wand. She knew she'd be able to escape any moment, but she had to see if there would be an opening, something to—something to _stop _Loki, so she could force him just talk with her. "Wizards alongside warriors," he murmured. "What _fun _awaits us in the shadows here, Agent Barton?"

"Doctor Granger," 'Agent Barton' said from Loki's side, his eyes too-blue and blank. Whoever Barton was, he apparently had the security clearance to read her case file, though the pleasure had not been mutual. Hermione was in the dark and hated it. "Class 5 magic user. I believe Director Fury is planning on using her as a trump card."

A smile eased onto Loki's face, like wine pouring into a glass. "My little lioness," he murmured out into the air, "and oh, how _little _you've grown. Where have you gone, what have you done? Two masters now and none the wiser?"

"I've wisened up plenty," she answered shortly, allowing herself to turn visible again though at the same time she raised up the strongest shields she knew to. They were on opposite sides of the room—not that physical proximity mattered much to either of them. Mostly she just needed to distract him, figure out what was going on, buy some time. Her voice shook. "Loki—what the _hell _are you doing?"

Loki's smile cracked, a bit of broken porcelain. "You've been a bit slow at saving your world," he said, "so I thought I'd save it for you."

Meanwhile, Fury swiveled to stare at her solidly. That she had been whisked off to Asgard by Loki was in her case file; that they had a personal history beyond that... not so much. She had done her best to avoid any official association with his more homicidal tendencies. Oh, she was in for a hell of a debriefing after this was all over.

"You could have called," she stated, the hurt singing genuine and fierce in her voice even as she waited for Fury to—hopefully—make some sort of move. "That's what normal people do, you know. Call. Not... not _this. _Hurting innocent people."

"First impressions are important." He gestured around grandly with the spear. "I am no _normal _supplicant to the throne of this world."

She wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time. Democracy. Not Loki's cup of tea. He—rightly so, she hated to admit it—thought that the masses were too stupid to decide the best course for their own lives. Unlike her, he just didn't really see the point in letting them carry on that way. He'd carve Earth a throne with the best and bloodiest spectacle that he could manage, knowing him. She had rather hoped that a year would have given him enough time to cool off of—well, whatever it was she had seen of him on Asgard, but she was thinking more and more that he had just been driven deeper into it.

"I don't understand," she said, licking her lips and looking towards Fury and the briefcase again. Her mind spun. Not just spectacle. He needed the Tesseract for something, and if his sudden concern for certain mortals said anything, people with areas of expertise outside his own. He had plans. Time to foil them. "You fail to destroy one planet, so you decide to conquer another?"

"I can hardly destroy Earth," Loki said. "You're still on it. Besides—" His smile broadened, tinted with more madness than Hermione remembered. "I like this one."

_No you don't_, Hermione thought to herself. _You don't try_ _to destroy the things you love._ _No, it happens completely by accident because you are completely insane and can't even see it._

"Just because I'm here?" she said, incredulous. "I'm not so easily flattered. You mean because we have trinkets like the Tesseract?"

Loki's eyes flickered over to the Tesseract, possessive. She remembered that look. _Oh yes._ Something was up. "Can't we have it both ways?"

Barton at his side fidgeted. "Sir, I believe they are both stalling. They intend to bury us."

"Hermione wouldn't wish such a thing," Loki said, his eyes confident.

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," she spat, Loki's eyes widening as she unleashed the first volley of the attack she had been readying during the entire course of their conversation: long twining vines, the first wall of which which shattered against Loki's shield but the rest racing in towards the Asgardian, her personal twist on _Impedimenta_. Fury probably just needed a distraction: she'd do her best to provide it.

Loki parried with an uncharacteristically unsubtle blast of raw power from his spear: the vines exploded and turned into a shower of particulates, which promptly coalesced into snakes that wound their way hissing towards her. Barton, meanwhile, shot Fury square in the chest and took the briefcase from his prone corpse. Then, taking the apparently very important Selvig by the arm, Barton began moving towards the exit.

Hermione couldn't think about that right now. Even as she waved the snakes away into hissing knots it sent a little pang thudding into her bones: it was the same trick he had always used to frighten people away from their corner of the library, and now he used it on her... "It won't work," she said, trying to figure out how to make him mad. She threw birds at him now, another sentimental trademark they shared. _Distract. _Someone had to have this all on a video feed somewhere and would be sending reinforcements, maybe Agent Coulson... "You're thinking too big again, and it's just going to fail."

The birds exploded; feathers transfigured into Stygian daggers that came careening at her. _A game. _He loved games. Jotunheim had been a game, in its own way. "Aren't you just a little bit curious what, exactly, I have in mind, before you so carelessly dismiss it?" A condescending smile. "I don't remember you being quite so close minded."

She shifted the momentum of the daggers _upwards_—only to watch them fall back down as rain when they hit the pulsing blue energy at the ceiling's apex. Curious. "You've hardly given me time to indulge curiosity. When's the last time we've sat down and had a good chat about why maybe genocide is _never _a good idea?"

"You've killed justly, no? Think of genocide as merely justifiable homicide on a larger, more efficient scale." He stepped forward and cast no blows, the staff settling in at his side. He leaned on it fractionally. Her heart burned. "I've promised that I'd have you on Asgard. I've promised a better world. Come with me and I'll tell you everything. _The truth_. There is so much for you to see."

It was then she felt the sharpness of cold metal against the back of her neck. _Of course. _Barton hadn't been going for an exit, but rather a back way in, another angle. Loki stopping to monologue at her was probably him just distracting her so that he could pry open her shield and give Barton an opening.

Not that any of this did her any good now. "Do we have her?" Loki asked, his voice barely more than a hiss. She felt the tingle of a paralyzation jinx sink into her skin

"Yes." The point of the—arrow, who the hell used _arrows, _only Hagrid was that anachronistic—dug more deeply into her back; she couldn't hold back a mewl of pain. "Selvig says we don't have long before the facility collapses. We should be leaving soon."

Loki nodded, his eyes never leaving Hermione's. His hair was dark, damp, his face deathly pale but he seemed to _burn _as he came towards her with another step striking forward, close enough that she could have leaned him and kissed him—if she hadn't thought he had absolutely lost it at this point. When he leaned in and she felt his breath against her ear she couldn't help but shiver, the pearl that held the Time Turner butting against her neck. _Holy hells... _"I daresay you'd die," he whispered, his voice as smooth and cool as silk in her ear, "were I to take your mind from you. And you know I cannot suffer useless creatures." His free hand cupped hers, still clutching the Elder Wand, caressing the tops of her knuckles as if they held the key to all worlds within them. "I'd much rather you come willingly, and oh, you _will, _Hermione, you'll will the world away for me by the time that this is done."

"You don't know me." Her body scrabbled for purchase against the paralyzation jinx, her heartbeat fluttering against the arrow pressed into her back. Holding trump cards like a Time Turner and an Elder Wand didn't do her a whole lot of good if she couldn't move to _use _them, and she wasn't in a state to be using wandless magic right now. "I don't know what you're doing, but I do know that I can't stand for this sort of thing, I can't honestly think of any reason why any of this would be justified. Loki, _what is going on I don't understand!_"

The last clause was pitched more like a sob than anything else and she pressed all the magic she had left against the confines of Loki's jinx—but he held her tight, his body half encircling hers, his face pressed against her cheek as he murmured bittersweet nothings into her ear. Helpless. _Helpless. _It always happened around him, only with him, around anything and everything else on this awful planet she had been born on she could hold her own against thank you very much, but... _Loki_...

He laughed into her ear, the shuddering of trees in a storm. "I know you better than you know," he murmured, "my little lioness. You'll fight, fight me with all the roar you can manage and needle me with those claws until you have me _bleeding _beneath you. It's the only way to win the sort of war to end all wars." He withdrew, looking into her again. She hadn't a clue what was going on. He pressed a cold kiss to her forehead. His lips were cracked, but soft. "I'm not the liar you think I am."

"You're insane," she whispered.

"Sir?" The voice was from behind her, whoever was prodding at her back with an arrow. She could feel blood slipping in the divet between her scapulae, down her spine.

Loki stepped back fully this time, his gaze still hungrily devouring her. Oh, what the hell. "Cheers," he said briskly, making a little salute with the spear and, without further ado, walked right on around her and out of sight. The arrow plucked itself out of her back and she heard two sets of footfalls fading away.

Meanwhile, the facility was very distinctly beginning to fall apart all around her, concrete slabs falling from the ceiling with great echoing crashes.

_Should have had that coffee_, she thought to herself a bit deliriously, fighting her way through the paralyzation jinx as best she could. She could, in theory, still Apparate away if she was _really _in danger of dying, particularly not what Loki wasn't around to suppress that, but getting Director Fury out—whatever condition he was in—was probably a good idea. He seemed to be the only person that actually knew what was going on.

By the time she managed to get her legs to move, albeit somewhat woodenly, Director Fury was storming right on up to her, looking as wrathful as one could be while also limping rather substantially. Of course he wasn't dead—likely just stunned from the impact of Barton's earlier shot. "I take it you've met before."

"Yes," Hermione said shortly, "and disagreed." Her brow creased as she concentrated on working out the last of the paralyzation magic from her system. "He has the Tesseract, whatever that is, and appears to be making his way out of the facility on foot. I think he's suffering from magical exhaustion."

They started making their way to the stairs at a light jog, dodging bits of falling pipes and concrete. They both knew crisis management a little too well.

"Seems like he was expecting a little something else from you." There was a crackle of undecipherable static in Fury's pocket—probably some absurdly high tech walkie talkie—and Fury swore. "Magical exhaustion my ass. What the hell did he do to my agents? Maria's in pursuit but he's firing some sort of energy weapon that cuts through our tech like butter."

"Teleportation takes exponentially more energy than virtually anything else—and I'm willing to bet that he came in from a very long ways away." They started working their way up the long stairs to the surface at a light jog. "I don't know what exactly Loki was using, but it seemed like a variant on _Imperius_, which doesn't actually take that much energy after the initial bit. After you've invested energy into reprogramming the brain, then... well, the spell maintains itself." She was breathing hard. "I wouldn't count on having your agents back anytime soon."

Fury swore rather colorfully as one of the walls caved in behind them, and accelerated his pace considerably. "I have a feeling Coulson didn't debrief you thoroughly enough after the New Mexico incident," he said darkly. "Your file seems to be missing out on a lot of rather important details. How does Loki know you?"

"I didn't have anything to do with the town he destroyed," she said, maybe a little too quickly; running up stairs was not very conducive to good conversational skills. "Nor do I see how my personal life is any of SHIELD's concern."

"Then you didn't read your contract very carefully. Homicidal alien life forms who relish in hostage situations are generally considered very concerning to SHIELD, psychopathic ex boyfriends or no."

"He's not my ex."

"Could've fooled me."

Hermione gritted her teeth. She wouldn't argue the point about psychopathy. "Can this happen later?" She cast a _protego _over their heads to protect themselves from a particularly shrapnel-dense explosion over their heads. "I might need to concentrate so I can Appa—teleport us both out if the facility just decides to blow."

"Only if you solemnly swear not to try to kill me. My quota for the day is already full. If you're gonna stab in me in the back, do it tomorrow."

She could hear the dull whine of a helicopter, even above the roaring of the facility falling apart around them. They must be close. "If you want a binding magical oath, it'll have to wait."

Fury rolled his good eye as they broke the surface. He didn't even stop his run, rather heading at full tilt into the waiting helicopter. Hermione followed. His people were well trained, being ready to go at a moment's notice like this, not even sure whether their Director was going to make it out alive. It must sting something mighty to have so much time and investment and _trust_ like what was put into career agents taken away with magic, this great black box that his organization had only just begun to grapple with. SHIELD existed to _deal with _the unknown that nothing else on this world could. Purposes could go astray, however, even without a little magical assistance. She didn't trust SHIELD anymore than she trusted Loki, when it came down to it, but at least Director Fury didn't feel her up while he was evaluating her.

In fact, Fury didn't even hesitate as he offered her a hand up into the helicopter. She took it gratefully, wincing a bit as the wound reopened on her back—she honestly didn't know whether she could afford the extra magic to heal it. Either Fury had scary spy intuition for establishing who he could trust that was far more honed than any _legilimens_, or he was desperate.

She had always hated helicopters, an extension of her more general distaste for flying, but she swallowed her queasiness as best she could as the helicopter jerked into the air. Fury was shouting colorfully into the walkie talkie as he looked out the still-open door intently. She was cued to look for Loki in the darkness down below—but when she looked outside, all she could see was the whole facility being swallowed up into the ground in a swirl of blue light and a roar.

_Micro black holes_, she thought deliriously. _CERN's going to have a field day. _

She clutched the arm rests harder. Fury, meanwhile, half-dangled out of the helicopter, holding what looked to be a sizable rocket launcher in the hand that wasn't keeping him from falling to his death. The way some Muggles behaved, you'd think that they thought themselves capable of magic.

"A little help!" Fury roared, and there was a sound like thunder as he began shooting at what she presumed to be Loki. She clutched at one of the handholds and did her best to fight down her stomach as the helicopter lurched about. Honest, she loved Muggle technology as much as the next modern witch, but flying was just _never ever a good thing_.

As Fury let another rocket go flying at Loki, who she could now see to be perched on the back of a jeep like a bird of prey, her stomach lurched but for entirely different reasons. He was insane, yes, but she didn't want him _dead. _

Before she even got a chance to really flesh out her ethical crisis, something made the helicopter shudder with more than its usual swerving—something explosive that made the whole world suddenly go into what felt like a fishtail. She blindly lunged forward and grabbed at Fury. As soon as she managed to get a substantial handful of leather she Apparated them both out to where she had dropped off all of the lab technicians.

She managed not to splinch either of them, which she was supremely grateful for, as it made her feel a good deal less guilty about falling right on top of Fury upon landing. Distantly, she felt him catch her before she hit the ground, and as she spiraled into the darkness also heard him give a startled oath. "For Chrissakes, this is _not _what I pay myself to do!"

Any retort she might have had was lost to sound of blood pounding in her ears, and a deep magical exhaustion stemming from an ocean and sweeping her away.

**A/N**: Updated 3/5/2013.


	16. Glitch

**Chapter Fourteen: Glitch**

**June 11th, 2011**

Hermione came to slowly; as soon as she remembered what had happened, she methodologically tested her toes, her fingers, running self diagnoses for spell damage and internal bleeding. It seemed like she had been patched up in the Muggle fashion, the wound between her shoulder blades having not already been healed and instead covered in what felt like fresh gauze.

Could be worse, considering she had gone toe-to-toe with an apparent psychopath and had _lost._

She opened her eyes. Grim chrome walls declared her to be in a SHIELD hospital—though admittedly Director Fury's face looming over her also helped ID the location. "You've been out almost a full day," Fury started without preamble. One of the machines happily chirping away in the room must have signaled him that her vitals had been shifting into consciousness and alerted him a head's up that he had someone fresh to yell at; she somewhat doubted that he had hovered over her for such an extended period of time. "We were starting to think that we should contact one of yours."

"SHIELD, ask for help?" Hermione rubbed her eyes. "On my lowly behalf, I'm honored. Not that it would have helped. No cure for magical exhaustion except for rest." She sat up, and did her best to smile reassuringly. Fury didn't look convinced, so she reiterated defensively, "All I needed was a little time."

"Well time's up, sleeping beauty." He threw a tablet onto the bed and stepping back started to pace. "I'm down a hell of a lot of people, and we need everyone we've got to fix this." He paused, giving her a long, appraising look. "Though we're down far fewer than might have been the case, thanks to you."

She swallowed. "The pilot—"

He gave her a Look. "Didn't make it. Personal favorite, too. Didn't ask too many questions." The Look intensified; he was trying to make a point, one that Hermione decided to ignore. No shame in curiosity, and anyone who told her differently wasn't worthy of her respect. "Not sure if I would have made it either, to be honest. I'm getting too old for this sort of thing."

Hermione thought about Dumbledore and the children that had fought so willingly on his behalf—herself included—and a lump formed in her stomach. At least Fury only involved adults in their schemes, even if their consent was sometimes dubiously acquired.

Fury gestured at the tablet, breaking her line of thought. "Have you heard about the Avengers Initiative?"

Hermione blinked. "Should I have?"

"You seem to know more than you really need to about a lot of things."

"Isn't that what I'm hired to do?" Hermione picked up the tablet. A gleaming image of the Tesseract greeted her, embedded within an unnecessarily shiny user interface. "I take it that 'Avengers' is code for something. SHIELD certainly seems to love that sort of thing."

"Catchy, ain't it?" Fury smiled obligingly at her attempt at a barb. "The idea's simple. We have an exceptional problem on our hands. We need some exceptional people to take care of it." He leaned in. "You in?"

Hermione frowned. _Not _what she had been expecting. "You're not going to ask about my involvement with Loki first?" she asked bluntly.

"Oh, I'll be asking about Loki plenty." Fury leaned in further, his good eye intense. "It just an issue of what sort of condition you'll be answering in."

"Is that a threat?" Hermione's gut curled around herself and one hand went instinctively to her ear. Elder Wand or no, SHIELD had its ways—particularly when paired with what could be a _very _curious Ministry.

Hermione didn't want to fight, any more than she wanted to run away. She just... she just wanted to _know. _

Fury's smile was cold. "I don't threaten. I promise." He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Now, it seemed to me that you have as much of a gripe with Loki as I do. Maybe for different reasons, but close enough for our purposes. I can promise you two things: that we're going to find out everything we can about Loki, and that we're going to bring Loki in—through whatever means necessary. You help us, and we'll give you the chance to have that chat you seemed so keen on, under circumstances more amenable to such things." Fury's smile tightened. "We want to have a chat with him ourselves. A nice, long chat on coveting thy neighbor's goods and why that's not such a good idea when we have some seriously badass motherfuckers watching said goods."

Hermione cracked a grin, despite herself. She hadn't gotten over the fact that the Director of arguably the world's single most powerful organization sounded more like he was at a bar than strategizing on global security. "And I'm one of those 'seriously badass motherfuckers'?"

"You'll take this seriously." Fury held his hands out wide. "Really, that's the only quality I'm looking for at the end of the day."

Hermione fiddled with her ear. SHIELD seemed to specialize in knowing things—like the sorts of things that Loki was interested in. Like it or not, they had a lot of cards she'd need if she was going to figure out what Loki's game was, such as information about the Tesseract. And of course, not getting thrown into a detention cell and interrogated—or alternatively spending her time defending herself from SHIELD, the Ministry, _and _Loki—would also help her along.

Loki was still her problem, but—maybe—she could be a little less alone.

She looked into Fury's good eye. "I'm in. What do you need?"

"A full report on why your crazy friend ran off with the single most powerful object this planet has ever seen like he was checking a book out of a library." Fury paused. "For starters."

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Let's start with this: that is _not_ how he treats library books."

Fury held up his hands. "Save his favorite color for the written report. Coulson says you're thorough—most of the time." Fury's attention was entirely, completely, _unnervingly_ on her. She had trouble holding his gaze, and instead settled on staring at the tablet, the bright blue of the Tesseract gleaming out of the screen. "Give me the sparknotes version right now."

Hermione took a deep breath. "You were closer when you called him an ex. We parted rather... violently, last time around."

"Last time?" Fury's eye narrowed. "So you've broken up, or whatever you kids call it these days, before." _Didn't mention that in your initial debriefing_, he seemed to accuse.

Hermione felt a flush in her cheeks. "Not like _that. _We weren't... we aren't..." She trailed off, trying to find the words; make it seem like she was telling all, that she'd have nothing more to hide after this. These were things she hadn't told anyone else before, so the shame and hestitation was real enough. She just had to spin the story such to trick the master spy. "Anyway. Yes, we've... disagreed before. I grew up with him. Well, he was... already a thousand years old at that point. So I did the growing up, he did the... the mentoring, I guess." She winced. And that was the least creepy way she could think to put it. "We'd sit together in the library. He was always doing research—how humans perceived his kind, mostly, pouring through our mythologies." She licked her lips. "I... didn't recognize it until later, but he was obsessed with prophecy, fate, destiny. He was convinced that all our stories about him had... something true to them. Things his family couldn't, or wouldn't, tell him."

"Did they?"

"Oh yes." She laughed bitterly. "The New Mexico incident was what happened when he found out that he was adopted—or rather, a bit of the spillover of the family squabble that spilled over to this planet. He also killed his biological father and nearly destroyed an entire world. Earth got off lucky. He wasn't angry with _us._"

"I feel for him," Fury said dryly, but the frown on his brow indicated that he was none too pleased about these disclosures. Oh, she'd be getting _hell_ for how much she had held back initially after this crisis was over. Good thing she didn't plan on being around for it.

Her smile faded. But that was for later. Loki was a real and present danger _now._ "He had been coming to Earth to get away from Asgard, he had been visiting for... well, centuries. At first I think he was just coming because he was curious about us, specifically our type of magic. He probably found out that we have genuine seers sometime in the course of that and started collecting research on the nature of prophecy." She took a deep breath. "Our myths—they claim that he'll end up destroying all of Asgard, that he's directly and indirectly responsible for the deaths of most of his family... he wanted to know whether it was true or not, or if there was a way to keep all that from happening."

Fury's brow raised. "Let me get this straight. He thinks he's doomed to destroy everything anyway, so he's going to go ahead and do it?"

Hermione pinched her brow. It felt... good to say all this aloud. Damning Loki like this. She hadn't even told the endlessly sympathetic Jane most of her theories on the matter; Fury's crisp cold skepticism was much closer to what she needed, nevermind the manipulative aspects on both ends of it. "It's... more complicated than that, but basically, yes. Except he is—or at least was—trying to minimize the damage. Hitting on the major plot points so to speak, the things he thinks he can't avoid, but also trying to prevent total destruction." Or so she hypothesized, based on the garbled scraps he had spat out on Asgard, but the theory felt incomplete, even to her.

If Fury felt it was an inadequate explanation, he didn't show it. "Stinks of self fulfilling prophecy to me, and this sure as hell doesn't excuse blowing up most of my R&D department. You said he tried to take out an entire planet?"

She nodded. "Jotunheim. Where his... biological species is from. He was raised to think that they were monsters." _It's not your fault_, she chanted to herself, the same refrain she had been telling herself this whole last year, _it's not your fault he did all these things, you couldn't have saved him, couldn't have stopped him. _"Asgard's Bifrost—their interplanetary transport system, the one you have Jane and I trying to replicate—utilizes so much energy that leaving the portal it makes open for extended periods of time is... dangerous." She smiled awkwardly. "More energy than our entire planet outputs in a century. Weapon-wise, it's several orders of magnitude larger than anything you've got."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," Fury said darkly, then added with an edge, "You think he'd do the same to Earth?"

Hermione shook her head numbly. Loki wasn't _evil, _she told herself, trying to believe it. Just... just lost. "He'd have done it by now," she said, her voice level. "Destroying things is easy. It's... manipulating them, getting them under your control, that's difficult. And that's what he fundamentally wants. Control. Certainty in what he does. The... the _knowing _that things are going to go his way."

"Sounds a pretty standard supervillain MO."

Loki. _Standard_. She wanted to laugh, but it died in her throat. "He said that I was the first human he really interacted with, but I don't know if that's the case. Especially considering how many stories there are. There's a lot I don't know, and when I was in Asgard I got the impression that I knew him better than his own family." Fury brow raised at this. _Cold_, she told herself, _stay cold_. "He—he interacted with Voldemort, and didn't tell me about it until a lot later, and that was just to taunt me. I don't know what in all he did. Or does. I'm not sure how much help I'll be."

Fury shrugged. "Tell us what you know. We'll work from there. Your Voldemort wasn't all right in the head either, if I'm remembering the file you wrote up on him correctly."

_Your Voldemort_, as if it was her problem. Still, Hermione nodded. "Differently, but—yes." She closed her eyes. "I think Loki was just biding his time, really. Playing around while he was waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"I'm not sure. An opportunity. A cue. Or maybe just a push to get started." She held her head in her hands, starting to feel overwhelmed. She hadn't told anyone _any _of this, and Fury was a far cry from a therapist. Telling him just enough to get SHIELD off her back was suddenly taking on a whole different tone. "I don't know. I really don't."

"And—you're _sure_ you're telling me everything this time around?"

Hermione thought about the Deathly Hallows, tucked away in secret places where no government could ever have at it. She thought about the strange omniscient magics of Heimdall and Odin and Frigga. She thought about what Loki's skin felt like, cool and smooth beneath her fingers, his iridescent eyes, his quirk of a smile, his laugh. "Everything that concerns this," she said, her voice firmer than she felt. "I don't know what in all might be related. If you have specific questions, ask and I'll do my best to answer. Otherwise, that should be enough for the exposé." Bitterness bit at her. "Why, do you want to know his favorite color? Because he never told me that one either."

"We'll be needing to update your case file, let's put it that way." Fury paused, then crossed his arms. "I'm a little confused on one point. You're a teenage girl who has a god take an interest with her. He makes a few promises. Aren't you supposed to be swept off your feet or something?"

She opened her eyes and looked at Fury. Typical, the concern about some feminine inclination towards _romance. _"He's insane. Admittedly, it... took me a while to notice. But, no. I'm not swept off my feet. Wasn't. I _left, _remember?"

"Twice."

Hermione winced. "Twice." And she took a deep breath. "Some lessons take a long time to learn."

Fury gave her another of his long, long looks. She met this one solidly. Nothing to hide. Nothing that mattered. Not to him. Not to anyone other than her and Loki. "Glad you did," he said eventually, and, reaching into the pocket of his trenchcoat, pulled out her wand and held it out to her.

She snatched it from him, the magic as warm and comforting to her now as it had been in Ollivander's that first time, when she had been eleven years old at the cusp of a brave new world. "Thank you," she blurted out. Her original wand wasn't necessary to her anymore, the Elder Wand coming more and more readily to her hand in recent times, but it was still... still nice. Still _normal._

Fury grunted in response, getting up and going towards the door. "Do your reading. Try to recall anything else that might be relevant. Our first meeting is at fourteen hundred hours."

"Where do I go?"

Fury turned at the door, smiling. "_Up_."

* * *

Hermione didn't like surprises, so after donning a simple SHIELD-issue jumpsuit—her cardigan and jeans from before having been torn to bits between the duel and the helicopter crash—she followed the directions provided on the tablet to head up to the conference room a little early. It gave her plenty of time to admire the sheer _expanse_ of the helicarrier, a veritable floating city: it was the sort of sufficiently advanced technology that reminded her that, one of these days, magic would be an antiquated study, replaced by the crisp precision of scientific terminology.

It looked like someone else had the same idea in arriving early, however: from the vivid red hair and pale face stiller than a pond in winter, Hermione was able to identify the woman from the case files as Natasha Romanoff, codename Black Widow.

For a bureaucracy, SHIELD trusted its collective gut an awful lot. Romanoff looked over her, unabashedly evaluating her with a cool, calm gaze that reminded Hermione of frosted glass.

Hermione looked her in the eyes eyes—and then looked deeper yet. She could catch some scraps of pain, deep down below, folded and carefully set aside in cupboards where they could be forgotten but they were still there, still rattled at the doors that kept them inside and bled shadows into the meticulous palace of her mind, even under the blinding brightness of SHIELD-issue interrogation lamps, so many stories _screaming _to be heard before they were whitewashed away—

"No witchcraft, please." Romanoff cocked her head and it all closed up like the shutters of a window. "I'd prefer to get to know each other the old fashioned way, if it's all the same to you."

Once upon a time Hermione knew how to be polite. She closed her eyes and sighed. Time to remember social niceties; it was easier just to slip into people's heads, but she had to at least pretend to be concerned. "Sorry," Hermione said, smiling wryly as the half-lie slipped out. "It... happens on its own sometimes. Instinct."

Romanoff cocked a perfect brow. Such a sculpture, so carefully carved. Hermione wondered what impression Romanoff was trying to craft for Hermione: all long lean muscles, carefully coiled as a cobra and every bit as cold. "You might find that instincts are a good thing to keep under control."

Hermione nodded, trying to keep her demeanor light. "You're right, that was rather rude of me."

"Except instead of 'rude' I was going to say 'dangerously intrusive'." Romanoff's face was smooth, expressionless, her voice little above a monotone. "If you haven't already gotten the lecture, we don't take kindly to that sort of thing at SHIELD."

"Said the master spy?"

The smallest hint of a smile touched Romanoff's lips. Subtle. Quiet. But there, as sure as the sky. "They didn't take too kindly to it at _first, _I should say," she replied, "but that's a story to be told, and not taken out of my head." Her chin jutted towards the door moments before it opened; Hermione turned her head just in time to take in the 'team'.

Even if she hadn't read the case files, she would have been able to recognize them from Muggle news reports, identifying the newcomers as Bruce Banner, Tony Stark, and Steve Rogers respectively, all already talking—or more probably _arguing—_amongst themselves. Director Fury followed them, already looking more than a little irked in his role as a shepherd of superheroes. Hermione had certainly met her fair share of famous people in her life, but having so much celebrity in one room was still startling—and some of it celebrity that actually interested her, as two of their number were scientists widely known for their unapologetically holistic approach to research and exploration.

Her eyes were drawn to Tony Stark, who seemed used enough to that sort of reaction to wink roguishly at her in return. "At least _someone _here doesn't already dislike me," he quipped, crossing the room in a few quick strides and holding out his hand.

"Give it time," Hermione replied mildly, taking his hand and shaking it. Tony Stark, if the media was anywhere remotely close to the truth, was practically the platonic form of the devil-may-care attitude, from his Black Sabbath shirt right down to shoes stained slightly with solvent. "I'm sure you can manage it, if the stories are anything to go by."

Stark seemed to note Agent Romanoff''s presence at Hermione's side; he grinned and jerked his head in her direction. "She got to you first, didn't she? She's just mad that I didn't sleep with her. Sexual tension. Common problem." He leaned forward and said in a stage whisper, "Don't believe a word she says. She's a spy, you know."

The reactions to that across the room as the 'Avengers'-apparent settled into their seats generally seemed split between a grimace and a grin—except for Romanoff, whose expression was eerily opaque. Before anyone could slip in Fury swooped over to the head of the table, dramatically declining to sit. "I think you'll manage that quite fine on your own, Mr Stark, if you keep interrupting everyone." Fury gestured towards her. "Doctor Granger, let me present Natasha Romanoff, spy extraordinaire, Bruce Banner, our gamma radiation specialist, Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America, and... Tony Stark."

"Don't I get a title?" Stark cut in. "Everyone else got a title."

"My apologies," Fury said. He turned towards Hermione. "Tony Stark: pain in the ass."

"At no additional fee, that's new." Stark flashed another brilliant smile at Hermione. "Other perks negotiable." Fury shot him another warning look and Stark looked at Hermione apologetically. "So, she's a doctor. Doctor of what? I don't know of any Doctor Grangers in the upper echelons of academia. I'd remember someone of her clea—ah, caliber."

He was trying to goad her, get a gauge on who she was, crude as the attempt was. Not that different from any other ignorant capitalist and political crony she had had to interact with. Still, everyone looked like they had questions about who she was, and Fury was leaving her an opening for her to account for herself.

_Remember to play nice, _she reminded herself, and taking a deep breath looked at each person assembled in turn. "I think I'm a lot more familiar with you than you are with me; my understanding is that my file is wrapped up in more red tape than anyone else's here. My formal title is rather long, but... in essence, I am a scientist, and a witch."

Short, simple and too the point: everyone other than Fury and Romanoff looked skeptical. Banner was the one to speak up first. "Aren't... ah, aren't those mutually exclusive?"

Hermione smiled. Her favorite part. "Not anymore."

"Thanks to Doctor Granger here," Fury added. "Her work focuses on the intersection of magic and technology. She has been consulting for SHIELD for the better part of the last year since we found out about her kind."

_Since we **let** you find out_, she thought to herself, _since we were sick of Obliviating everyone at field sites where you interrupted our work, _but kept it quiet. SHIELD could keeps its pride.

Stark let out a wolf whistle. "Beautiful, bright, _and _British," he quipped. "I don't suppose you do yoga too?"

"How about a demonstration?" Rogers asked, cutting in for the first time. " I like a magic show just as much as the next person. Maybe that would help, since..."

"Since you don't believe me," she said, and smiled at Rogers' awkward expression. "No, I understand. I was skeptical when I found out too." Hermione had worked with enough suspicious Muggles after starting with SHIELD to know her cue. She held out a hand and filled it with her favorite charm, bright blue fires that did not burn her. She let those fires crawl across her skin, cooling, calming; after a few moments the dancing flames transfigured into flitting birds, little canaries that then began to whirl around her head. Banner was twirling his glasses in his hand; she sent one bird over to land on his fingers. He stared at the bird, squinting at it speculatively.

"Can you do flowers?" Stark drawled, clearly not impressed. "Or rabbits, that one was always my favorite."

"Show and tell is over," Fury cut in. Hermione obligingly waved her hand, and the birds disappeared into puffs of yellow rose petals. Banner picked one up and fingered it thoughtfully. Stark poked one with a pen, as if it was contagious. Rogers mostly just looked spooked. Romanoff's face never changed.

"A killer rabbit, then?" Stark put up his hands while Fury glared. "Fine. I bite. Magic's real, or at least there's some funny physics going on that I don't think even the most strung-out string theorists have guessed at. Now what? We erect a shrine in her honor and pray that this is all going to go away?"

Fury stood up his full height. "_Now_ we work out what to do about Loki. The plan is, at current, that we do two types of searches. The first is for Loki based on facial recognition programming, which standard SHIELD techs should be able to do using the worldwide network of CCTV cameras. We're _hoping _that he has limited familiarity with technology and that even with his hypnosis thing done on our hackers he's going to slip up sometime. Agent Hill is already heading up that search. The other search—the one you'll be tasked with—is for the Tesseract itself. Banner, Stark, devising a method to detect the Tesseract is on you, with Granger assisting. Romanoff and Rogers will be on retrieval once it's been located."

Stark had something to say, of course. "You mean, the man in the high tech suit doesn't get to help with retrieval?" When Fury glared at him again, he threw up his hands. "Legitimate question!"

"Only if you behave," Fury said, "and find me a magic blue box."

"Doesn't sound very much like a supervillain to separate himself from what he just took a lot of effort to steal." This was Rogers, his voice careful and strong. _The good soldier_. "So if we find one and we find the other, right?"

"Not necessarily," Hermione cut in, her voice soft. "It depends on what Loki wants to do with it. If whatever it is doesn't require his presence, he may try to distract us—lead us off its trail."

"Not that we know what he's up to, other than the standard take-over-the-world trope." Romanoff, her voice crisp. "We need a more detailed MO, but our perp _conveniently_ took the one person—Dr. Erik Selvig—who had any real idea of what the Tesseract is capable of."

Banner drummed his fingers on the table. "Don't you keep backups of his work somewhere off site? Seems like a pretty basic safety precaution to me."

"Yes," Fury replied, "but we're missing the last two weeks—looks like Selvig wiped it somehow, and our surviving lab techs can't unscramble the rest of it.

Hermione frowned. "Could Jane—Dr. Jane Foster—come here? She worked with Selvig for years, she might be able to reconstruct his work." She paused. "Jane had mentioned that Selvig had been acting unusually—not calling her like he used to, wouldn't talk about his work at all. Perhaps he knew something was coming."

"And wanted it to come," Romanoff slipped in. "Maybe Loki's been around longer than we'd like to think. It'd certainly explain how he cut through SHIELD's best so easily."

Fury's gaze swiveled squarely towards Hermione. "Know anything about that?"

Hermione's throat went dry. If Loki had been here on Earth this last year... if he hadn't even come to _talk _to her... "No," she said, her voice soft. "I've been paying pretty close attention."

"I wouldn't expect anything else," Fury said. Another one of those long, considering looks.

Even Stark caught on to the fact that something was going on in the unsubtle subtext. "I'm missing something. I take it she's not just here for the looks?"

Before Hermione could speak for herself, Fury cut in for her. "Dr. Granger has specific intel relating to our thief, yes."

Stark cupped a hand over one ear. "Sorry, can't hear you through the bureaucratic mumbo jumbo. Can we get that translated out of spy-speak?"

Might as well spit it out. "Loki and I were... friends once," Hermione said, struggling to keep her voice level. "And _not _just for my looks." A little thread of bitterness worked its way through her voice. Oh, she wasn't much of a looker even now, artificially generated youth asides, but she had not been a pretty twelve year old. That she had found his attention flattering was as much of a beginning to it all as anything else.

"Trouble in paradise?" Stark again.

She had a feeling he wasn't going to let up. "Hardly paradise. He has a habit of destroying things he didn't like instead of reasoning with them."

"Seems to make an exception for you," Fury stated bluntly. "Still a little curious on that front."

Hermione rubbed her forehead. "I have no idea why. I really don't. He didn't make a whole lot of sense to me either. I'm not sure why he's doing any of this." There: admitted that she didn't know something out loud. It left a hard lump in the pit of her stomach.

"What changed?" Romanoff asked. "People—rarely—become destructive for no reason at all."

Hermione didn't miss how Banner shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but she'd save the psychoanalyzing for later. For now, she'd give them the bare minimum of a modus operandi that she had given Fury earlier. "Loki... doesn't just want to destroy things. He wants power over things. Control. He spent the better part of the last thousand years... not being treated kindly by the people he thought were friends and family."

Stark raised an eyebrow. Skepticism and suspicion seemed out of him. "So, he doesn't want to kill you because he thinks you can still be bosom buddies?"

"Maybe." She sighed. If the group couldn't even accept this shade of the truth, it was certainly good she wasn't disclosing the whole of it; she felt shamed enough as is. "Again, I don't know. It wasn't the sort of friendship where he actually told me anything."

"Doesn't sound like much of a friend to me," Rogers said, frowning at her with something like pity on his face.

"That's what I thought." She smiled bitterly. So this is what happened to her. She wasn't a science consultant: she was supposed to _gossip_ over him like they were writing next week's tabloids. She felt nauseated. "He had an unhappy childhood, basically. It doesn't excuse his actions, but it does explain them."

"So, he has an identity crisis, decides to blow things up." Stark rolled his eyes. "Makes perfect sense."

"It should to you," Romanoff slipped in like a knife.

Stark laughed harshly. "Yeah. Uh. Low blow. Coming from you especially. Just because I haven't managed to hack your file yet doesn't mean I haven't done my research."

"It should to all of us," Rogers said, spreading his hands out wide. Playing at peacekeeper. Hermione felt her stomach twist again. What farce, what _fantasy_. "I think we've all made our mistakes."

"As if Captain Perfect has ever done anything selfishly in his entire life," Stark scoffed. "Not even a typo in your case file, I bet."

"We're off track folks, and careening towards a cliff called global catastrophe." Fury let out an exasperated sigh. "Nobody's case file has any goddamn typos. We're not middle school girls here, we're _professionals. _Kindly act like it, or I'll drop you off the helicarrier before you can misspell 'consequences'. What would Loki want with the Tesseract? Granger, Banner, Stark, any ideas before we get Foster in here to have another look at Selvig's research?"

Banner frowned. "The report said that he used it to make a portal to get here, yes? Maybe he's trying to get somewhere _else._"

"Or get _someone_ else _here_," Hermione said, thoughtful. "He can already teleport himself perfectly fine. Same as I can. Takes a lot of magic, but it's possible. Large numbers of people, on the other hand, or large objects, or across long distances, or some combination of the above... He's powerful, I think the most powerful magic wielder I've ever met, but even his magic is finite. And, I think the only reason he didn't just disappear with the Tesseract after arriving was that he genuinely needed Selvig for something. He seemed to be suffering from some magical exhaustion from traveling a long ways, even with the Tesseract's assistance. Hence... fighting his way out."

Fury stared. Really uncanny. Hermione did her best not to shift. She was thirty-something years old for Merlin's sake. "He had that spiel about freedom from freedom, right before you came in and distracted him. We're already thinking he wants to take over the world; does he have an army in mind?"

Hermione's head whirled. "It... isn't the sort of thing I'd expect him to do, frankly. He hates relying on others." She swallowed. "Then again, he hates behaving according to expectations." _And he's changed_, her mind whispered, thinking of the deep circles under his eyes, but she pushed that aside. Maybe he had been a sociopath all along. It wouldn't have been the first thing she had been wrong about. "He always thought of all out war as being very wasteful, but on the other hand, he's gotten more... violent, recently. I think because the whole subtle cunning thing wasn't working for him so well, and—his brother, he's always looked up to Thor even if he won't admit it for a _moment_, and Thor has always approached things very... ah. Crudely. Violently. Bloodily."

"So maybe he's trying something new." Fury drummed his fingers on the table. "An army from where?"

"I don't know. The universe is a big place."

"_Guess_."

She closed her eyes. "You keep asking me questions as if I know answers and I _really_ don't have them." _Most of the time._ "Last time I saw him was when his one-person approach to destroying and conquering planets didn't work out, and he just disappeared." She felt heat in her eyes but she fought back the tears. _Professional. _"Just. Disappeared. Gone. I know he's been to hundreds of planets. He's been around a very, very long time. He had stories about stealing from dark elves and tricking dwarves and fighting off fire giants and just about everything else we read about in mythology books as kids and an awful lot more, but he never gave any inclination that there was an army somewhere he could just summon on a whim. Honestly, Thor would probably know more than I do."

"I'll make some calls." Fury's fingers tapped impatiently, obviously trying to work out Plans B through Z. "Make sure some of our own armies are mobilized."

"SHIELD has an army now?" That was Banner, looking... unhappy? Hermione frowned. Someone else who took issue with bureaucracies with ambitions of omnipotence.

Fury swiveled his gaze. "Alien invasions are the sort of thing that prime ministers and presidents like to know about in advance. Granger, fetch Foster; you two starting working through Selvig's work, see how much you can reconstruct. Stark, Banner—you just try to find out where the damn thing went. And I want you all working in the same lab. Exchange notes and all that like you did in high school chemistry or whatever." His good eye swept over the room once more. "Everyone else—you have your orders."

They all rose. Hermione looked around. This was the group that was supposed to save the world from whatever Loki had in store? She might be able to deal with that, even Tony Stark—painful as it was to alternate between lying through her teeth and admitting honest ignorance. Maybe they'd even be able to find Loki.

This would work out just fine for Hermione—just as long as they left Loki to her.


End file.
